


Spark

by ReganX, SionnachOghma



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 71st Hunger Games, F/M, Gen, Mixed POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 74,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22908217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReganX/pseuds/ReganX, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SionnachOghma/pseuds/SionnachOghma
Summary: Reaped as a Tribute in the 71st Hunger Games, thirteen-year-old Katniss Everdeen is an instant write-off for most of those around her, a useful tool for others. One or two might even care enough to give the plucky kid a shot.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

_**Effie**_

I must be imagining things. The reek of soot and decay can’t possibly be so strong that I can smell it through an open window a full ten minutes before the train arrives. Still, I catch myself three times on the verge of biting my nails, my stomach roils despite the fact that I could only manage the lightest of breakfasts this morning, and I'm certain my makeup is melting away with sweat.

I'm pacing up and down the entrance and exit corridor, empty but for myself and a lone attendant, a young man whose eyes remain glued to the thick purple carpet at his feet. The silk and velvet drapes hanging from glimmering golden rails are purple too, and a small but beautiful gold and crystal chandelier hangs overhead, with matching candelabras spaced along the walls. Even though they'll only pass through this corridor twice during their whole journey, it is in a way the Tributes' first look at the Capitol, and at the honour being bestowed upon them. Even the poorest of Tributes are treated like royalty.

Though I've yet to have one who appreciated anything other than the food.

No, no, no. I came here to clear my head, not to remind myself of what's waiting for me at the end of this journey. Dead eyes, hollow cheeks, and a district under what seems a constant funeral pall. Black dust and black moods. The most unwelcoming place in all of Panem.

_Stop it!_ I try to force my thoughts in a different direction. Fashion is the first thing to come to mind, and usually it would cheer me up in a heartbeat, but now I'm very aware of the clash between the purple finery all around me and my canary yellow ensemble. I should have waited in my compartment.

The train lurches, and I place a hand on the wall to steady myself. We're slowing down. Are we there already? Oh, heavens, I'm not prepared for this. The miserable children. Haymitch Abernathy. Hovels for homes. Haymitch Abernathy. The festering aura of neglect in that dilapidated Justice Building. Haymitch Abernathy. The palpable rage of parents who see nothing of the honour and glory the Hunger Games offers, only their children being snatched away from them. Haymitch Abernathy.

The train comes to a halt all too soon. I have an instant to check my reflection in the glass doors before they part. My hair and makeup, despite my fears, are perfect. A deep breath, the closest thing to a little fresh air I'm likely to get for the next few hours, and I'm smiling widely as I step onto the platform, where a pair of Peacekeepers stand immediately behind a willowy girl who seems to be just of Reaping age. Mayor Undersee's daughter, Margery, I have to remind myself. Here in place of her father, who's absent for the second year in a row. He'll be at the Reaping, of course, but his wife won't. I've yet to meet his wife.

The girl gives a slight curtsey. "Lovely to see you again, Miss Trinket," she announces politely. Tertius Cray, the Head Peacekeeper, inclines his head respectfully, and his young subordinate, a red-headed young man who must still be a trainee, eyes me with ill-concealed amusement.

"Hello, Margery, darling." I embrace the girl gently, brushing my lips against each of her cheeks, then extend my hand to Tertius. He's a scruffy little man, whose reputation is one of undisciplined laziness and debauchery, but he remembers his courtesies well enough, clasping my hand and bending at the waist to bump his stubbly lip against it. As he straightens I catch a slight whiff of liquor from his breath, but his eyes are clear and he doesn't appear flushed.

"Everything almost ready, Commander Cray?"

"Near enough, ma'am. All of the technical tests are completed, and registrations for new candidates are underway. There is," he hesitates, glancing at the girl, "one small issue we could use your input on."

Some sort of trouble with the mayor? My eyes flicker to Margery too, but she seems perfectly composed, then Tertius mouths a name at me and I have to suppress a groan. What will it be this year?

"This way, please," he continues, leading us just outside the station exit where an old, but clean town car idles, flanked by a pair of Peacekeeper vehicles. Margery and I take the middle car, while Tertius clambers in next to the driver of the lead vehicle, and the younger man moves to the one in the back.

"I'm sorry my father was unavailable to meet you this morning," Margery announces as soon as we're underway. "There was an incident at home he had to attend to."

"Not at all, dear," I tell her, waving off the apology. This is my seventh year as escort for District Twelve, following two years as an assistant to Septimia Kincardine before she managed to escape to what I'm told are the much greener pastures of District Seven. She hadn't expected to rise so high, but perhaps someone had taken pity on her after all the years of managing the coal district and its sole living Victor.

I can only hope someone soon takes pity on me.

Only twice in the last nine years has Mayor Undersee been present to meet me at the train station, always citing his wife and her mysterious ailment as his excuse. I have no idea what's wrong with her, but I do know a steady supply of morphling is shipped to the Undersee home, at a cost even the mayor could not sustain if somebody in the Capitol didn't have specific instructions to keep the supply going.

Margery blushes slightly, embarrassed, whether at her father’s absence or my awareness of her home situation I don’t know, and ducks her head, fidgeting with a circular pin attached to her dress. A golden bird in flight, attached to a gold ring by the tips of its wings. 

“That’s beautiful,” I say, hoping to distract her.

“It belonged to my aunt Maysie,” she tells me. “She wore it during her Games; the second Quarter Quell.”

I have to stop myself from grimacing. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The year Haymitch Abernathy won, though I have no idea how. Whenever the highlights of old Games are broadcast, be it for nostalgia, or for the analysts, sponsors and gamblers to study for the upcoming Games, the second Quell is always curiously absent. My own curiosity got the better of me once, and I attempted to track down the footage, but could never find any. Perhaps something happened to the original. I once made the mistake of asking the man himself how he did it. He threw a glass at me. Thankfully his aim was atrocious, being so out of his mind with drink that he probably didn’t know which of the three Effies he was seeing had asked the question.

“Beautiful,” I say again, absently. “Is that a jabberjay?”

“A mockingjay,” she says, with a hint of pride and anger I don’t understand. “It’s an old family symbol.”

It can’t be _that_ old, I think. The jabberjays themselves were bred only during the last war; one of the Capitol’s most effective methods of spying on the rebels. The genetically modified, exclusively male homing birds were capable of memorizing and repeating human speech, right down to the voice, and relaying entire conversations back to their handlers verbatim upon their return. Eventually, the rebels caught on and began sending our birds back full of lies and misinformation, and the jabberjays were abandoned to the wild.

They should have died out, but found a way of continuing the line in mating with female mockingbirds, and a new species was born. The mockingjay. A pretty, if unremarkable songbird, and never one I’ve heard of being adopted as a family crest, but I don’t question the oddity.

“Perhaps you’ll have the chance to bring the same pin into the Games yourself,” I suggest brightly. “You’d certainly be doing your auntie’s memory proud, and maybe District Twelve could even have a new Victor!” It’s ridiculous, of course, that such a tiny little thing could ever be a true competitor in the Hunger Games, but there’s no need to suggest to the girl that she should abandon any hope of glory in the event that she finds herself being reaped, and if her answering smile a tad tight, then at least she’s no longer worrying about her mother.

The rest of the drive is silent, though mercifully short. As soon as the cars stop, the red-haired Peacekeeper hops out and jogs to open our door. I gesture for Margery to exit first. The air is even more stagnant here, and a thin layer of soot coats everything in sight, including what should be a pristine white Justice Building.

In the balcony above the main doors and on rooftops all around, camera crews are rechecking their equipment, and though only a handful of older children are here this early, there's quite a line at the tables for the registration of first year Tributes.

Margery eyes the scene with a touch of apprehension, takes a deep breath, and turns back to me. "Good luck today, Miss Trinket," she mutters, her voice shaking slightly, and considering the 'small issue' Tertius mentioned, I suspect I'll sorely need all the luck I can get.

"To you as well," I whisper, my voice for some reason even more faint than hers.

She gives a small nod to the younger Peacekeeper, ignores Tertius when she finds him standing behind her, and walks to a pair of girls a little older than her, who seem from their dress to be of the merchant quarter.

I take a deep breath of my own and address Tertius. “Shall we?”

He leads me inside and through the dilapidated Justice Building. Superficially, the place is quite clean, but no amount of dusting or polishing can hide the disrepair. Every piece of upholstery is visibly threadbare even at a distance, and there isn’t a floorboard anywhere that doesn’t groan in protest at our footfalls. Quite a bit of the decoration seems to be a wasted attempt to conceal cracks in the walls or spots of damp, and the odour of rotten wood is everywhere, except in the elevator, where it is drowned by the funk of sour milk.

Though the building is only three stories tall, the creaking and squeaking of the elevator has me wishing we’d taken the stairs. When the doors open, they do so with a screech that sets my teeth on edge and I half-run through them before regaining my composure. Tertius deliberately doesn’t notice, but I’m beginning to loathe the amusement on the younger man’s face.

We march down the long, dimly lit corridor towards the Head Peacekeeper’s office, and the putrid stench that assaults us when Tertius flings open the door almost has me retreating back to the elevator. I’m actually thankful for the string of profanity Tertius unleashes, as it keeps any slip of my own unheard as I pull a handkerchief from my purse to clasp over my nose and mouth as tightly as I dare for fear of ruining my makeup.

A lone figure slumps unconscious in the chair in front of the Head’s desk. These, together with Tertius’ own chair on the far side, comprise the entirety of the furniture in the office. Tertius quickly crosses the room to the large, dusty windows, and opens every one he can, which is all but one, whose rusted frame simply refuses to cooperate.

The younger Peacekeeper crosses to the man in the chair, sidestepping a large puddle comprised of coffee, a shattered cup, a quite a lot of pale, watery vomit. He leans close to man in the chair, then recoils, coughing. “Well, he’s breathing,” he announces once he's settled himself.

“Such a blessing,” I snap. “Let us all be thankful.”

Tertius gives up on the last window and turns to survey the damage. “Two of my men went over to pick him up this morning. One ended up needing six stitches to his head, but they got him under control, and then went to the Hob to get him some suitable clothes.”

I eye the 'suitable clothes' dubiously. An oft-mended grey shirt is stretched tightly over his paunch, the sleeves barely reaching past his elbows. The black trousers are too short also, spattered with vomit, the hems frayed away to nothing. I lift my eyes to Tertius, questioning. “Well, more suitable than anything we’d have found in that rats nest of his,” he shrugs. "At least they were clean before... this."

I inhale, because I have no other choice, and can't tell how much of the vile odour is from the mess on the floor, and how much from the man himself. I reach out towards him, and draw my hand back at the last instant, too disgusted to actually touch him. The metallic snap behind my back makes me jump, and I turn to find Tertius grasping a spring-loaded baton by the end, extending the handle towards me.

I take the device thankfully, and take a careful poke at the man in the chair. "Haymitch," I hiss. No response. I prod him again, harder. "Haymitch!"

He gives a great snort and turns, swatting at the annoyance. There's an instant of dead silence before he sits bolt upright in the chair, staring fitfully around him like a child who fell asleep at home and now finds himself waking in some house of horrors. He gapes at the boy, grimaces slightly in Tertius' direction, and then his eyes fall on me. A furious scowl settles on his already repellent features; a patchy, bristled beard on a face I know to be olive-toned beneath the sallowness the years of self-abuse have left him with.

"Oh, wonderful," he declares, glaring at me with narrow, bloodshot eyes. When he speaks his mouth is a yellow and black hole in his face, the rotten teeth all misaligned where they are present at all. "Nobody decided to put an end to you or that _voice_ of yours in the last year."

The baton is still in my hand, and for an instant I'm actually tempted to use it to do something about _his_ voice. My grip on the handle tightens, and Haymitch's horrid grin widens before the weapon is plucked out of my hand. He returns his glare to Tertius, considering, then shrugs. 

"Well," he mutters, hefting himself out of the chair, "we can always ho-" the last word cuts off with a choke as the heroic Victor of the second Quarter Quell both retches again and simultaneously slips in the puddle already at his feet. Everyone jumps back, and I pluck at my skirt and yank it higher than decency would dictate. Not that anybody notices. All eyes are on Haymitch as he flies forward, barely giving Tertius time to get clear before a fresh wave of vomit flows all over his desk and Haymitch collapses face down right in the middle of the mess.

"Oh, for heavens' sake!" I shriek. "Just get him out of here and onto the train. Or onto the tracks, for all I care!"

Tertius checks himself over to be certain he made a clean escape, and then regards his office with ill-disguised revulsion. "What about the Reaping? If he isn't there -"

"I will have to answer for that, not you," I remind him testily. "And at the moment I would much prefer to answer for his absence than his presence."

Tertius turns to the younger man. "The late shift is just finishing up. Pull two men to get him on the train and find an attendent or two to get him cleaned and changed." He smiles, darkly amused. "Then I want _you_ to get this place cleaned up and aired out by the time the train leaves." The boy pales, and Tertius chuckles. "Let that be a reminder; next time you have to subdue a drunk, a knee to the gut may not be the smartest way to go about it."

He indicates that we can leave. Realising I'm still grasping my skirt, I hastily smooth it out, then more hastily depart the scene, ignoring the spluttering and choking as the lump on the floor once again returns to consciousness. Tertius is immediately behind me. "Not a stupid kid, exactly," he whispers to me after slamming the door, "but as wet behind the ears as any new recruit I've ever seen. I suppose it's good he reacted so quickly, though, or Barret probably would have lost an eye."

"What about Mayor Undersee?" I demand. Despite his home situation, the mayor has always been perfectly punctual and composed for the Reapings, but it seems this is the day for everything to go wrong. I'm already dreading explaining to Seneca Crane how I ordered Haymitch be kept away, despite what I said before.

Tertius sighs. "I found Margery sitting on the front steps of the house, crying. From what I could gather, her mother saw her dressed for the Reaping and became completely insensible." His eyes are clouded, sad for the child growing up with such a burden. "By the time I arrived they'd already given her a triple dose of morphling and she was still shrieking to rattle the windows, but I'm sure they'll get her under control. This isn't a new experience for them. He'll be ready."

I blink in surprise, realising we've already descended and are out of the elevator once again. One thing can be said for the state Haymitch has me in; there's little room for concern over the little things.

Tertius checks his watch and announces that we still have a little time for an early lunch. I couldn't eat anything, but I allow that some tea will probably settle my nerves. Usually food would be brought to us in his office, but today we enter the cafeteria used by the building staff and Peacekeepers. Tertius directs me to an empty table and goes to the counter. Tea for me, coffee and biscuits for himself. My eyes tighten as he plucks a small flask from his pocket, topping up his cup with what he no doubt believes to be perfect discretion.

I drink my tea with no milk or sugar, as I would my favourite herbal brews in the Capitol. It's earthy and bitter, but I found to my surprise on my first year as escort that the one and only variety of tea served in District Twelve is preferable to my home favourites on a stressful day.

I'm considering whether or not I have time for a second cup when the door behind me opens, and Tertius gives a nod. I turn slightly and am relieved to find the mayor approaching us.

His face is slightly pale, and he wears his grief in every line upon it, but he's groomed and clean and well-dressed, the sash of his office slung across his breast, perfectly straight, his suit spotless and only very slightly worn.

"My apologies, Miss Trinket," he wheezes, his breath heavy. He looks to Tertius, who gives him a once-over and a curt nod.

"Not at all, Mr Mayor," I tell him graciously. "I do hope everything is well at home."

His face tightens slightly. For all his courtesy, Mayor Undersee is as District as the rest of them, and he doesn't like my being aware of his wife's condition, but it would have been rude of me not to ask. "Maggie's... having a bad day," he whispers, his eyes downcast. "She's sleeping at the moment."

There's little else to say, and thankfully there isn't really time to linger. I'm the first to rise, and the men follow in unison. 

"I'm afraid there's been a slight change to the program," I whisper to the mayor as we make our way to the front of the building. Haymitch won't be joining us. He's... having a bad day," I tell him. It seems very poor taste to use the same words for Haymitch that he used for his wife, but there isn't really any other way I think to describe it. The mayor doesn't need to be worrying about the details, and I'd prefer that those milling about us don't hear them. I can only hope the pair who hauled Haymitch away were able to do so with some measure of subtlety. The less of this farce that ends up being televised, the better.

Mayor Undersee is silent for a moment. "What about the reading of the names?" he asks finally.

I hadn't considered that. It's customary for the names of a District's Victors to be announced, and for those who still live to take a bow for the audience. Haymitch always botches or ignores that part of the ceremony, usually just scowling at the gathered candidates, and only once do I recall him even so much as standing up.

"Best to skip it," I decide. "The less attention we draw to his absence, the better."

A pair of Peacekeepers pull the main doors open, and where an instant before the square was buzzing like a nest of wasps, an oppressive silence descends all at once. The square that was near empty when I went inside is now packed to capacity. A sea of dour faces lies before the stage, with mostly older children to the forefront. 

Generally, those most likely to be reaped are from the poorest part of the district, which I've heard referred to as the Seam. The offspring of the unskilled, often with more siblings than their parents can reasonably support without living off of tessarae rations supplied by the Capitol, and as a result they tend to have far more reaping slips than most. It helps to move things along when the elder children of Seam families are gathered near the stage, but you can see the exact spot where the Peacekeepers gave up trying to enforce any semblance of order on that which habitually defies order, or common sense. 

A few rows in, it's a chaotic mix, and even the few Peacekeepers passing between the children have to push and shove. As I'm taking my seat, I see a tall, gangly boy lose his footing and snap something at the Peacekeeper who elbowed him aside. The masked figure - they're all masked now, save for Tertius - stops and turns languidly to face him. They're too far away for me to hear, and with the mask I have no idea if the Peacekeeper speaks, but the boy stands rigidly in front of him, glaring - until the butt of a gun whips across his face with lightning speed, and he falls to his knees, one instantly bloody hand clasped over his mouth. I wince. The boy is obviously an idiot, but with the way my day is going, he's likely to be up on stage in ten minutes. Even the rawest of Peacekeepers should know better, on a day like today.

Mayor Undersee moves to the podium, waits a moment for a signal from one of the rooftop cameramen, and clears his throat. He begins, as always, with the sanitized history of the end of the old world, which is the only version known to the districts. The wars that left great swathes of land on the North American continent uninhabitable. The drastic changes in global climate, the cause of which is still a subject of debate in the Capitol. There are some that say the world naturally moves through such cycles, and that no amount of human interference could have had such wide-reaching or disastrous results. Others point to how easily our own Gamemakers manipulate the weather on a small scale in the arenas, and the staggering population counts the surviving records indicate. How, they point out, could such a destructive species as man fail to have such results on their environments?

For centuries the cycle repeated. One war after another, cities rebuilt only to be destroyed all over again. It seemed like the end of us all.

Until the northern neighbours of the squabbling descendants of the United States descended upon them. They brought a sword, but they also brought peace and plenty. Over the slow years, the warring lands were settled, forgotten techniques of farming and industry reestablished with the knowledge of the invaders, and the new world formed. Survival in the forbidding lands above the Rocky Mountains had fostered quite a bit of ingenuity, and though necessity had eventually driven us south, we had the tools and knowledge necessary to restore civilization.

For a time, at least. The districts formed to provide us with all we needed, from power to food to new technologies, grew restless over time. They accused their conquerors in the Capitol of slavery, institutional cruelty and starvation to keep the districts in line. It was said we grew fat and lazy on the fruits of their labors. But when they rose up in rebellion, they learned we were neither.

The war was brutal on both sides; an ever-escalating game of death. The rebels bombed a supply train; we levelled a factory. They attacked our soldiers; we destroyed a school. They threatened us with nuclear weapons; we called their bluff and fired ours first. That truth is one nobody in the districts and few in the Capitol are aware of. Even I shouldn't know. In the districts, it's believed the Capitol destruction of the graphite miners in District Thirteen was a threat, and since then it has served well as such. In truth, nobody mined graphite there. They developed nuclear weapons, and when a rebel faction seized control of the silos and prepared to launch at the other districts, preempting them was the only hope any of us had. 

For the rebels hadn't liked their chances of actually wiping out the Capitol, even with nuclear weapons. The unerring accuracy of the satellite guided missiles of old had become a fantasy, and any attempts to get nuclear bombers close enough to the Capitol to actually hit us, safely nestled in our mountain city would have been a fool's gambit of the worst order. Instead, the lunatics at the controls in District Thirteen had settled on the utter destruction of the species through the obliteration of the districts and the slow starvation of the Capitol that depended upon them. In the end, only the indecision and infighting in Thirteen had allowed us the time to strike. We saved the world again.

In the wake of the bombing, they branded us monsters, but the monsters had won. Surrender was, for the most part, immediate.

In the wake of the war, strict new laws were imposed to keep the peace. Travel outside of one’s district was expressly forbidden outside of official Capitol business. Even citizens of the Capitol were forbidden from visiting the districts without the written consent of the government.

The old system of government assistance for struggling parents and those unable to work was abolished and replaced with the Tessarae system. This new system was made available only to those between the ages of twelve and eighteen, and was inextricably linked to the final form of punishment; that which would become central to our society in a way I doubt the lawmakers ever expected. The Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are quite simple. Every district denizen between the ages of twelve and eighteen is entered in the yearly Reaping, which will select one boy and one girl each year to do battle in a specially constructed arena. Those who rely on the Tessarae rations have more entries than those who support themselves. The system is meant to encourage self-sufficiency, but every year in the outlying districts, the bulk of those reaped - known as Tributes - are filthy and underfed, clearly from families who rely on the Capitol to prop them up and grumble about the consequences later.

In the more prosperous districts, those being One, Two and Four, the Tributes are the polar opposite of those further from the Capitol’s influence. More often than not, they are volunteers, eager for an opportunity to seize the glory of being crowned Victor; for every year only one Tribute emerges from the Hunger Games, and that Tribute lives ever after in wealth and luxury, a darling of the Capitol, held up as a shining example of the achievements possible for those who persevere.

There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. Exceptions like Haymitch Abernathy; and, just as the outlying districts provide hungry, uncouth Tributes, it is the Victors from those districts who always seem to disappoint in some way, or every way.

Even so, triumph more often than not comes to those who embody the spirit of the Games. The Hunger Games are not merely the brutal form of entertainment cited by critics of the practice. They are a reminder of what we lost, and of how close we came to falling right over the edge of the abyss, to the end of all things. The Capitol may have saved us, but it is the ceremony of the Hunger Games, and its harsh reminder of the annihilation we courted, that keeps us safe.

“It is,” as the mayor solemnly intones, “a time of repentance, and a time of thanks.”

The grim, sullen faces in the crowd suggest they have little time for either. Really, is it any wonder the only example of a Victor they can produce is Haymitch?

From here, Mayor Undersee makes a brave attempt at a more cheerful tone as he half-turns toward me, holding out an arm in welcome and introducing me for what I pray to be the last time as the Capitol escort for District Twelve.

I rise, give a brief wave, and walk to the podium without pausing for the acknowledgement I know not to expect. In most districts, the escort is greeted with polite applause, and in Districts One and Two, enthusiastic uproar. Here, there is only the dead silence of glaring disrespect. I’ve learned to rise above it.

The mayor shakes my hand and moves to take his seat, and I look out over the silent host of judges. Though many are out in what counts as their Reaping best, mostly clean with a spattering of colour here and there, I look down on a drab sea of black and gray, unreal and unforgiving.

I raise my eyes and fix on a point beyond them all, just above their heads. Between the lines of buildings, a small glimpse of the oddly beautiful forests beyond the district is visible. I take in that sliver of a view beyond this gloomy prison and, forcing my best smile doesn’t take quite as much effort as I expected. “Happy Hunger Games!” I announce with as much enthusiasm as I can force. “And may the odds be ever in your favour!”

I’m supposed to tell a bald-faced lie about how honoured I am to be here, but I can already feel the panic rising. The tea hasn’t helped like I thought it would, and I’m sure Haymitch’s absence and the Mayor’s not mentioning him has not gone unnoticed. My stomach threatens to revolt, my voice quavering as I call out, “Ladies first!”

I cross the platform to the first of two glass balls, clench my fist briefly to stop my hand from shaking, reach in and grasp one of the thousands of small pink slips of paper within. I walk back to the podium, careful not to be seen rushing to get this ordeal over with, unfold the slip of paper, and call out the name written within.

“Katniss Everdeen!”

There is an instant buzz of angry muttering, and I find myself missing the oppressive silence as soon as it’s gone. Last year in District Ten, the escort called out the name of a girl who had died a month before the Reaping, and the entire ceremony was turned on its head – the broadcast, said to be live but in truth running on a five minute delay, was unexpectedly disrupted due to a “technical fault” that prevented the ensuing riot scene from becoming a national spectacle. We only heard of it from a traumatized escort - now former escort - who’d had too much to drink during the training sessions. He told us of how the Reaping had to be done inside the Justice Building after the riot had been quelled, with the selected living Tributes rounded up by Peacekeepers. 

My heart is in my mouth as I silently pray I’m not about to fall victim to an angry mob because Tertius Cray botched the census, but when I finally manage to look at the crowd rather than over them, I spy a ripple of movement coming my way; the taller children parting to admit a figure I can’t see until she’s less than twenty feet from the stage.

Better if I’d called for a corpse.

A tiny, dark-haired girl with olive skin apart from her ashen face climbs tentatively up the steps, whip-thin and queasy-looking. She’s clean, and her clothes – a pale yellow skirt and ruffled white blouse – though clearly meant for a taller, better fed girl, are well-made and of better quality than the clothes worn by most Tributes of District Twelve. She stumbles slightly at the top step, but just manages to keep her footing, before turning to face the angry crowd, her eyes darting to and fro as if seeking out an avenue of escape.

I feel as frantic as this tiny creature looks, and I can barely get my next words out. “Let’s have a big round of applause for our first Tribute!”

The muttering stops. It doesn’t quiet, or fade away. It simply ceases.

For all that I’ve become accustomed to their treatment of the ceremony, and of myself, this is not something I’ve encountered, even in District Twelve. Not a single sound is to be heard. I’m certain even the breeze is taking part in this silent protest.

I can’t do this. I can’t keep up a show of good cheer when what I want to do is stomp off in the most childish way imaginable and leave the entire wretched lot of them to face the wrath of the Gamemakers themselves.

“Right, then,” I snap, my tone laden more with weariness than the bile I feel rising in my throat. “The boys.” I march to the second bowl, swipe at the slips of paper within and have to pause and drop two extras, before stomping back to the podium. If my Reaping isn’t already the worst disaster of this Games, I may well be making it so. My mother’s chiding voice echoes shrilly in my ears. “Most unladylike,” with her customary sniff of disapproval. It only makes me angrier.

I unfold the paper. “Bannock Mellark!”

A beat of silence, then running footsteps. An escape attempt? There can be no doubt; the Fates and District Twelve are conspiring against me.

I follow the belt of laughter, and when my eyes fall on the running boy, I feel relief and genuine hope for the first time since I woke up this morning. For “boy” is hardly the word to describe the tall, breathtakingly powerful creature running headlong towards the stage, not away, as I’d feared. 

He’s clearly of the merchant class; no Seam boy has muscles to spare, as this one does, and under an unruly mop of ashy blond hair, his face is handsome despite the sharp angles, his mouth turned up in a mischievous grin, which may have served as a warning had I not been so desperate for something good to happen for a change.

“Well,” I breathe, my delight evident as he powers up the steps, where once on a level footing with me the top of my hair only comes up to his chest. “A big cheer for – ” and that’s all I have time for, before the gigantic buffoon steps forward and stoops in an exaggerated mockery of a bow.

His display is met with a barrage of derisive laughter, cat calls, and a demand of “Twirl for us!” from somewhere in the mass of jeering teens. Naturally, he obliges, and I’m left quivering with furious humiliation as the mayor places a hand lightly on my back. I storm back to my seat, unable to face him, and it’s only as my bottom touches the chair do I realize that in both cases I forgot to ask for volunteers. Not that there are ever any volunteers out here past the end of civilization, but this failure on my part feels like the straw that broke the camel’s back.

All through the anthem and the reading of the Treaty of Treason, I keep my eyes on my shoes, willing myself not to fall apart in public and to ignore the continued titters that punctuate the mayor's every word. I need only make it back inside, then I can have some time alone during the visitation hour.

And once we reach the Capitol, I can have all the time to myself I wish, when Seneca Crane dismisses me from my post. Effie Trinket, the worst escort in the worst district.

At least _she_ isn't still alive to see this. I can picture my mother's eternal disappointment easily enough, but now, thankfully, I can choose to ignore her.

The Treaty over, the mayor calls forth the Tributes to shake hands, and I find I'm too exhausted for further rage when the girl is hauled off her feet. She gives a shocked squeal of protest as the boy lifts her up until she's at a height with him and pulls her into a crushing hug, her feet kicking ineffectually at his legs.

The laughter from the rabble picks up again at this, but the Peacekeepers seem to have had enough comedy for one day. At the back of the square, a dozen uniformed men are grabbing people from the back of the crowd and throwing them towards the exits. They go easily enough, with no signs of anybody trying to fight back, and if the Peacekeepers are rough, their pistols remain strapped to their hips and they don't seem to be deliberately hurt anyone. On the stage, Tertius Cray appears and punches the boy on the arm, prompting him to set the terrified girl down, and we are marched quickly back inside the Justice Building.

My eyes are on the boy the entire time, wondering what else he has planned to ruin this day, and I'm surprised when his wolfish grin vanishes the instant the doors slam closed behind us. His expression becomes stony, and suddenly he isn't attractive at all. He places a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, causing her to flinch and gape up at him in confusion, but she doesn't attempt to escape his reach.

In the absence of noise my churning stomach demands my attention. With every step I'm more and more certain I won't reach our destination, and the tea which I've always found so helpful now threatens to violently reappear. _One more minute_ , I tell myself, resisting the urge to clap a hand over my mouth. _Thirty seconds_.

I'm down to ten seconds when we reach our destination; a dim corridor with two small rooms at the end and, mercifully, a ladies room to my immediate right. I don't quite flee as I leave the Peacekeepers to get the children situated, but if I had any dignity left after the Reaping, it's gone as I shove the door wide and all but fall through it, dashing to the nearest stall the moment I'm out of sight.

I'm sure everyone hears what follows, the door having not quite swung shut before my breakfast makes its encore, scorching my throat, making my eyes water and my knees buckle.

There was so little in my stomach that the event is over almost as soon as it’s begun, and I'm down to dry heaves as I try to regain my feet. I stumble to the sink and run the faucet, cupping a little water in my hands and attempting to wet my lips without destroying my makeup.

When I force myself to meet my eyes in the mirror, I manage to take some small satisfaction that I look much more composed than I feel. Perhaps I didn't make quite the fool out of myself as I'd thought. If this is to be my last Games, I might actually escape with a scrap of dignity.

And it will be my last Games, I suddenly realise. Whatever Seneca Crane decides. Even if he doesn't force me out the door, or simply have me shot, any desire I have to stay is gone. They're never going to give me a real district after this, and I can't take any more of Twelve, of Haymitch Abernathy and...

Ugh. Haymitch. I still have to deal with him, if he's even regained consciousness by the time we reach the train. Yes. This is definitely the end of the Hunger Games for me, but I won't skulk away like a coward. I'll go out on a high note if it kills me.

Which is a distinct possibility.

I straighten my dress and my hair, breathing deep as I dig for calm. Head _up_ , smile _on_ , I march back outside. The red-headed Peacekeeper from earlier on, no longer smirking, smelling faintly of the mess in Cray's office, hands me a canteen of water, which I take gratefully. "It's only the family for the boy," he informs me, "but Katniss has drawn a bit of a crowd."

I take a sip from the canteen and follow his glance to where a tall boy, slim but by no means skinny, similar to Katniss in colouring and nothing else, leans against a wall next to Margery Undersee. Margery's eyes are downcast, but the boy glares hatefully at all of us in turn, daring any and all to take offence. Nobody seems willing to take him up on the challenge. Four armed Peacekeepers in the room, and all look away when he turns his eyes on them.

"Popular girl," I mutter, taking a larger gulp of water. I thought it would be the other way around, with a horde of well-wishers and collaborators waiting on Bannock Mellark, but the tiny girl from the Seam has both this boy and the mayor's daughter to attend on her. "Who is he?"

I don't think he hears me, but his eyes fall on me all the same, and I suppress a shudder as I look away, thankful for the presence of so many Peacekeepers. He's young despite his size, no older than fifteen, but I don't doubt for a second this child would murder me given half a chance.

"Gale Hawthorne," the Peacekeeper whispers. "His father was killed in a mine explosion along with Katniss', just last year. The pair of them are fairly well known around the Hob." He grimaces, eyeing me carefully, apparently aware that he's said too much.

Most Districts have a black market, and though I'm only dimly aware of the Hob, I know that there can be no legitimate reason for two children be there, and certainly not to be of note among those who trade there. What on earth can these two be getting up to?

He says no more, and I don't ask. An oppressive silence settles over the scene, and I almost jump when one of the Peacekeepers knocks on the door to Katniss' room and throws it open. Already time for her next visitor.

A stooped, dead-eyed woman tows a sobbing child out of the room. If it wasn't always family who went in first, I would never guess that these two could be related to the little girl within. They're as skinny as anyone else from the Seam, but pale and blonde. Katniss obviously takes after her father. How unfortunate for her. Looking more like her sister would be at least one point in her favour. Even sobbing and blotchy-faced, the little one is by far the prettier sibling.

The woman stops briefly in front of Margery and the boy. Nobody has anything to say, but she exchanges a brief hug with each of them before she picks up the wailing child and leaves. The boy goes in next, not looking at Margery to see if she'd like to go first. Charming.

My curiosity gets the better of me the instant the door closes again. "How is it they're known in the Hob?" I ask the young Peacekeeper, suddenly annoyed that I don't know his name.

He looks me up and down, distrustful but considering. At this point I’m beyond being insulted by his opinion of me, and I meet his gaze expectantly.

"They hunt together," he eventually allows. "Both of their fathers were hunters. Now they're the ones feeding their families. Any scrap of meat that goes through the Hob comes from the woods. From Katniss and Gale."

Hunting? _Outside_ the district? Of anything I might have expected, it wasn't this. I'm not at all surprised that the boy would fly in the face of the law and the dangers, but the thought of tiny Katniss Everdeen stalking live game through the wilderness and trading kills under the noses of the Peacekeepers - even _these_ Peacekeepers. I simply can't picture it. I have no idea what sort of wildlife roams the woods around District Twelve, but I'm certain that isn't safe.

On the other hand, perhaps this means there's more to the little girl than meat for the grinder. Certainly nobody inside the arena would expect her to pose any threat. If she were a little older, a little prettier; the sort of Tribute a sponsor or two might take note of. Certainly there have been a few diamonds in the rough over the years.

Of course, even those lucky few would never have succeeded without a mentor capable of helping them.

No, I realise with weary disappointment. Even if she'd had a few years to blossom, Katniss Everdeen would still be from the coal district, and Haymitch Abernathy would still destroy any hope she might have of being a contender.

A little while later, the door is thrown open, and I hear her speak for the first time. Pleading with the boy as he's hauled from the room. "Don't let them starve!" She sounds like she's crying. The sorry truth setting in.

"I won't," he promises fervently as the Peacekeeper draws the door shut. The boy is almost at a height with him, and the uniformed man seems to shrink a little under his glare, until the young man next to me clears his throat. He straightens up, his eyes going flat as he meets those of the furious, overgrown child before him.

The boy's fists clench and unclench a few times before he turns and stalks away, almost barreling right over poor Margery as she approaches the door. She pays his fury no mind, simply steps lightly aside. The door opens, and in she goes.

No sooner has it closed behind her that the other one opens. A single figure emerges. Bannock's father, I assume, tall like his son, blonde hair thinning and gone somewhat to seed, but there's a memory of the strength passed to his son in the way he carries himself.

I assume he means to use the men’s room and then return to his son, but instead he approaches me. "I'd like to speak to her. Is that allowed?"

I open my mouth, and close it again. There's no rule on who can visit whom, but this fairly screams _bad idea_. The young man next to me flicks an arm and glances at his watch, then turns to me, shrugging. "There isn't a lot of time left."

I consider for a moment. There's been trouble in the past with the outlying districts. I know a distraught mother in Nine once tried to throttle her child's district partner, and threats aren't exactly uncommon. I can't see how this man might feel the need to threaten or harm someone so diminutive, given his son's physicality, but a part of me wonders if there might be more to his antics onstage. Perhaps there's something genuinely wrong with him? If there is, the girl may know of it, may take advantage.

"You can have a moment, but I won't leave you alone with her," I tell him. I glance at my informative Peacekeeper, who nods in agreement.

I check my own watch and confirm that time is indeed getting short. Little more than five minutes. I allow Margery another two before I signal the guard at her door. When it's opened, I see the girl yet again caught in a surprise hug, though at least Margery Undersee doesn't haul her into the air. After a brief hesitation, she returns the embrace.

I nod to Mr Mellark, and the young man follows him into the room. Margery departs quietly, head down, hands clasped tightly behind her back.

The last minutes tick away, and the Peacekeeper by Bannock's door knocks without any prompting. "Time," he calls quietly. His counterpart moves to open Katniss' door, but stops when I shake my head. A few extra seconds won't hurt, and I'm in no hurry to get to the train.

The remainder of Bannock's family emerge, two boys, younger but blond and fit like their brother followed by a woman who manages to be both pinched-looking and beefy all at once. The boys' faces are tear-streaked, hers a thundercloud. She looks about for her husband and follows my eyes to the other door.

The youngest child gives a small sniffle, and the crack that follows has myself and all the Peacekeepers jumping in surprise. The woman’s hand leaves an instant weal on the boys' cheek, and he's knocked backwards.

"That's enough out of you!" she hisses furiously, and I can only gape in astonishment. "Never mind that your brother's being sent off to slaughter; why don't you go join him in crying for that Seam brat?!"

The boy gives no reaction at all. No doubt he's become accustomed to such treatment. His refusal to acknowledge her rage only seems to infuriate his mother all the more, and she raises her hand a second time.

I don't know when I make the decision, but suddenly I find myself rooted between the boy and his mother. She stops and leaps back, sputtering wordlessly. Her fist clenches, and I brace myself for the blow, but the other door opens and I'm forgotten about as her husband reappears. She turns to face him, shaking with fury, but he refuses to pay her any mind until the door closes behind him, then speaks in a low voice, perfectly calm. "The Seam brat can hear you."

Her hands drop to her sides, and she shoots all of us in turn with a look that promises retribution before grabbing the eldest of her remaining sons by the collar and storming away. The father watches them go, sighs heavily, claps a hand on the other boy, and the pair follow, bowed and silent.

I'm still staring after them in astonishment when the Tributes emerge, almost in unison. Katniss glances towards the ladies room, then looks to me in question. I nod and she dashes inside. We're waiting no more than a few seconds when she's back with us, the evidence of her tears washed away, leaving only a small, deadened girl. Perhaps she isn't completely unlike her mother after all; it would seem they react to stress in much the same way.

The boy looks bored and slightly annoyed, as if tired of the whole thing. I can only hope he stays that way.

"Very well. Ready to go?" I gather a little cheer and lead the way.

The square is empty of all but the Peacekeepers and a single car. The red-haired Peacekeeper holds open the door and we pile in for the silent journey.

During the drive I watch my Tributes for any sign of the dangerous young adventurer I was told about, or the more dangerous clown who upstaged my Reaping, but they both simply look bored. Until we reach the station, when they both appear to steel themselves in different ways. Katniss' expression becomes one of grim determination, and she scowls slightly at the cameras flashing without. The boy is smiling again, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes.

As we exit the car and make the short walk to the train, I find myself mimicking Katniss, staring straight ahead, acknowledging nobody. I don't need to look back to know Bannock Mellark is making a fool of himself again. The reactions are quite enough.

The Peacekeepers stop at the door, and it's only then I realise I'm still holding the water bottle, which I pass back to the young man with a nod of thanks. "Good luck," he singsongs, smirking again. Because Haymitch is my problem now.

An attendant appears to take Bannock off my hands - thank heavens - and I show Katniss to her compartment. She studies her surroundings with interest, and once we reach the compartment she's gaping, eyeing the furnishings and amenities with wide, incredulous eyes. Until she catches me watching her, whereupon she abruptly looks bored again.

"Anything you want to eat or drink can be ordered at this console," I tell her, "though you may wish to wait; dinner will be served in the centre car in just over an hour.

"Should you wish to change, most of what's in this closet," I indicate the one on the far right with a wave, "should fit you." I eye her somewhat baggy blouse and the pins holding the skirt onto her tiny frame, when I spot something I hadn't noticed before. Margery Undersee's mockingjay brooch pinned to her breast. The sweetness of the gesture is somewhat soured for me; I'm stalling, putting off the inevitable.

"Well," I announce, "I'll leave you to it." I give her a small smile she doesn't see, then leave her be.

I make my slow, unsteady way to where they'll have stashed him, and stop at the door with my hand raised to knock. I'm feeling ill again, despite there being nothing left in my stomach.

_The damage is already done_ , I remind myself viciously. _There's nothing left he can do to you that will compare to what Crane can do. But perhaps there's something you can do for them._

I don't knock. I wrench the sliding door open so it slams home with a crash that threatens to break the glass. The first thing I see is Haymitch, jolted awake in an overstuffed armchair, mercifully clean and finally dressed somewhat appropriately.

The attendants obviously had quite a time dealing with the smell, and have doused him an awful mix of what must have been the strongest scents on hand. It's still a vast improvement.

"That's not very ladylike, is it?" he asks with a derisive chuckle as he clambers out of the chair.

Much like in the Justice Building, I don't make a decision. I just react. I don't know if it's Haymitch's words - my mother's words - or Bannock Mellark, _his_ witch of a mother or myself I'm most furious with, but it's Haymitch who's here. It's Haymitch who falls back into the chair with a startled cry as my palm whips across his cheek.

The blow probably hurts my own hand more than Haymitch, but that doesn't stop my from delivering another before he grabs both my arms, surges out of the chair and hurls me back across the room. All the breath leaves my lungs as I crash into the door frame, and his hand grips the collar of my dress as he raises a fist.

What follows is the most _unladylike_ moment of my entire life, and I can't help but be proud as Haymitch staggers back, choking and gasping for breath. He doubles over and clutches at his throat where my fist caught him - not where I was aiming, but the result is quite enjoyable.

For one horrible moment I'm afraid he's going to throw up again, but then his choking turns to breathless laughter. He straightens with great effort, laughs again and finally manages to steady himself. "Must have been a very exciting Reaping," he comments, wheezing. "I'm sorry I missed it."

His eyes tighten and his words take on a delighted, sadistic tone. "Of course, I'm not the only one who won't be happy I wasn't there. It's Crane this year, isn't it?" I purse my lips, and he laughs again, turning his back on me. He staggers up to the food console and orders a drink. Drains it in one go, crunching the ice. His question is muffled. He spits as he talks. "So, what are they like?"

"One boy and one girl, as usual," I hiss, quivering from head to toe. Knowing full well he'd tear me to shreds I want nothing more than to hit him again, and from his smirk, he knows it. "The girl is tiny and terrified, but apparently not without useful skills; the boy is a brawny court jester; and both are sorely in need of a mentor if they're going to survive the first day of the Games, let alone have a chance of actually surviving."

He throws his glass into a trashcan, smashing it. "They? Are you forgetting how this delightful little show of yours works? _They_ aren't going to survive a damn thing. Twenty-three corpses, one _lucky_ survivor. That's how it goes. Every. Single. Year."

"Thank you, Haymitch," I intone with as much calm as I can muster, "but I'm quite familiar with the format of the Hunger Games. And as I said, the children are going to need a mentor if one of them is to have a chance of not numbering among the corpses for once. Sadly, all I can offer them is a pathetic, aging drunk who simply refuses to die only because there's still alcohol in the world. Still children to murder with your ineptitude and callousness."

"Or perhaps you think I'm to blame?" I add as he opens his mouth, no doubt to throw out something vile. "You may even be right; I've done nothing to stop you. Myself and Septimia before me; we stood aside and watched as you ignored, belittled and neglected your charges before sending them off to certain slaughter. Every. Single. Year."

"Well, congratulations!" I announce hysterically. "If I'm the enemy you think you're punishing, you'll be happy to know you've won. But if this is to be the end of the Hunger Games for me, then come hell, high water or the firing squad, I will see you do your duty for once. Even if it kills us both, you _will_ be a mentor this year!"

I depart before he can say another word, and march to the front of the train, flagging down the first attendant I see. "I need to speak to the chief attendant immediately."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Haymitch** _

Even if I was sober, the outfit these Capitol twerps wrestled me into would have my eyes paining me more than my throat. I wince as I rub at where she got me. Who could have predicted that Effie Trinket of all people would know how to throw a punch? I’d be impressed if it didn’t hurt so damn much.

Every year, the closet and chest of drawers in my compartment are stocked with clothes and every year, it's a challenge to find something I can wear without the sight of my reflection making me want to hang myself. 

Thanks to Effie's determination to have me cleaned up before we'd even set off, I need to search for a change of clothes before I can even leave my compartment. I tear the teal jacket and matching cravat from my body, swiftly followed by the lavender shirt with violet frills on the collar and cuffs. I don't even know what to name the colour of the pants. It’s like pink, if pink hated itself and everything else.

Effie has undoubtedly ordered that the clothes I was wearing at the Justice Building be burned for fear that I might shame her by showing up in the Capitol looking at least somewhat normal.

It takes almost twenty minutes for me to empty the closet and drawers to put together the least garish pieces into an acceptable whole. I leave the mess for the Capitol staff. Unfortunately the change of clothes doesn’t really do anything for the reek of lemon from whatever disgusting body wash the attendants tried to drown me in. I’ll be lucky if I can even taste my drink over all the mouthwash they forced down my throat.

A day that started out bad when the Peacekeepers came for me and got worse when Hurricane Effie arrived takes a turn for the catastrophic when I go over to the console to avail of the only good thing about my annual trip to the Capitol.

_"Unable to comply,"_ the syrupy-sweet tones of the automated voice, with its ridiculous Capitol accent, informs me. _"Alcoholic beverages may not be served in this compartment."_

I storm out of my compartment towards the dining cart, barking at the first attendant I to get me a glass of amber. He glances around, looking panicked. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. Orders from the chief." With that, he turns and flees the room.

I watch him leave, stewing furiously. No Capitol employee would ever cut me off. We both prefer me in a stupor, and I'm sure Seneca Crane does too. It's a beneficial arrangement for all involved. There's only one person who'd dare to do something like this.

She's been a royal pain in the ass ever since Septimia Kincardine dumped her on me and ran to Seven as fast as she could, but at least she knew her place. There are lines she knows - or knew - not to cross. She knew when to keep her damn mouth shut.

Now it looks like the squeaky freak has found her voice at last. Can't have that.

I throw open the door through which the attendant ran away and roar down the corridor. "Somebody get me a damn drink, NOW!" When nobody shows up within the next minute, I overturn the cake stands, stomping on the pastries until every crumb is ground into the carpet. After another minute, I'm flinging every piece of dinnerware I can get my hands on at the panelled walls of the compartment, bellowing at whoever is listening - and I know that somebody is - that I'll smash every trinket and stick of furniture on this train if they don't get me my drink. Then maybe I'll smash one more Trinket.

It's only been a couple of hours since I fortified myself for the Reaping with a bottle of Ripper's finest, but the thought of having to get through the coming weeks sober has my stomach churning, my head spinning and my hands shaking as badly as they did the last time Ripper's still blew and I was cut off for days while she repaired it. Effie knows that this isn't done. How a Victor decides to self-medicate is their business. Nobody tries to part Chaff from his flask any more than they try to pry the morphling from Iris' bony yellow fingers.

Another attendant, a girl this time, slips into the compartment and sets a drink down on the counter in front of me. She has already darted away by the time I snatch up the glass, take my first gulp of the bright red concoction and taste syrupy, fruity sweetness without so much as a drop of alcohol to sharpen it. I slump down into the nearest chair with what is apparently the closest thing I'm going to get to a real drink and sit there nursing it as the two attendants cautiously poke their heads into the compartment to see if it's safe to enter before getting to work cleaning up my mess and setting the table for dinner. I scowl at them, but they never so much as look at me, and go about their work as silently as Avoxes. I don't bother raging with them or shouting at them. There's no point. They're not about to go against their orders, and I know who I should really be yelling at.

She is the first to enter the dining compartment, undoubtedly wanting to make sure that it and I won't be too terrifying for our latest pair of Tributes, in case they take one look at me and decide that there are worse things than dying in the arena, after all, denying her the victory that could win her the promotion she's been hankering for. Her mouth presses into a thin line as she takes in the damage but I don't give her a chance to berate me for the mess.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" I demand. "You have a very simple task! You deliver a pair of Tributes to the Capitol and then a couple of weeks later, you escort a pair of coffins back to District Twelve and rattle off a few platitudes for their families. Trying to control my life is NOT part of your job description!"

"I couldn’t possibly care less about your life," Effie informs me bluntly, with more fire in her voice than I would ever have given her credit for before today. "I have spent the last nine years watching you drink yourself into oblivion and ignore your Tributes and this year, you take it even further and cannot even be bothered to stay sober enough to be in a fit state to attend the Reaping! In case I didn't make myself clear already, I have had enough! I am going to do everything in my limited power to see to it that at least one of your Tributes has a fighting chance of surviving the arena, and that means that you will be doing your job for once. If these children die, it won't be because their mentor is too drunk to give them the help and support they need."

"You have no authority to cut me off!"

"Then perhaps you should report me," Effie suggests in a voice every bit as sweet as the syrupy snot in my glass. She knows as well as I do that I would never run crying to the Gamemakers, even if I thought that there was a chance that they might take my side. "I will already have to answer to them for the conspicuous absence of the only living Victor my district has to offer. I am sure that it can only help my cause if you start demanding more alcohol, after all of the trouble you've already caused." Before I can come up with a response to that, Effie lifts a finger to her lips to shush me. "They're coming. If you can at least make an _effort_ to behave in front of them, you may have a glass of wine with your dinner." 

I should probably feel ashamed that this pathetic bribe is enough to get me to stand up, ready to greet my Tributes without running them off, but with Effie on a power trip, I'll be facing a long, unpleasant journey if she doesn't loosen her hold on the keys to the liquor cabinet.

Effie pastes a broad smile on her face as soon as the door to the compartment slides open to reveal District Twelve’s latest offerings for the Capitol. "Come in, come in," she calls invitingly, like a witch in the woods with a roaring oven waiting to be filled. She jumps up and flings her arm around the girl, ignoring her squirming as she guides them over to the table. "This is your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy." She fixes me with a pointed glare, as if to rebuke me for the fact that my absence from the Reaping has delayed the introductions until now. "Allow me to present Katniss Everdeen and Bannock Mellark." 

I take one look at the girl and mentally write her off. Unmistakably a Seam kid, every bit as tiny as Effie said she was and as thin as a rail, she’s a ‘pneumonia’ death waiting to happen. At least the Capitol will get a few decent meals into her before I’m left with my forty-first corpse. 

The boy, on the other hand, just might have enough potential to avoid being corpse number forty-two. He's the first merchant kid I've had in the last few years, taller than me and as muscular as any Career. He's good-looking enough now so he should be able to turn heads once his stylist is through with him. It's too much to hope that he'll have any experience handling a weapon but he's clearly strong and might just have a shot, if he has a brain in his head. It'd be just my luck if my first promising Tribute in nearly a decade wasn't just as strong as an ox but as stupid as one too.

Nobody bothers with any attempt at a greeting; they know me and I don't want to know them. We just look at each other for a quiet moment, the pair of them glaring at me while I size them up. Eventually realising there aren't going to be any pleasantries exchanged, Effie ushers us over to the table, pushing the kids into chairs on one side and making me sit next to her before she signals to an attendant that they can begin to serve dinner. She beams at the kids when they both use their spoons instead of slurping their chowder from the bowls, like last year's Tributes.

The girl is quiet, her attention focused on the food in front of her, which is more than I can say for the boy. He's under the impression that since we're sitting at the same table, he’s allowed to talk to me.

"Is there any footage of the other Reapings yet?" 

"No." 

"Are the mentors ever given any idea ahead of time about the kind of arena we're looking at?"

I roll my eyes. That’s a ‘no’ on the brain question. Even the Career Districts, who can get away with training young killing machines while the rest of us aren't allowed to put a weapon in a kid's hand before the Reaping, are kept in the dark about the kind of arena the Gamemakers have in store. If they're feeling creative, it could be anything. "No."

"Are you feeling okay?" 

"Shut up." I can feel Effie frowning at me, but I ignore her. It's bad enough that I have her getting on my case about my drinking without this idiot bothering me too. I wonder how awful I must look for the boy - who, like everybody else in District Twelve, must know of my drinking habits - to ask after my health. Hopefully bad enough for Effie to see that she's not doing the kids any favours if she tries to cut me off for the rest of the Games.

Once we're finished with our soup, the servers move in to clear the bowls away, to be replaced by plates laden with the main course. 

I barely notice what I'm eating; my attention is focused on the girl carrying a carafe of ruby-red wine who circles the table filling a glass for each person. At Effie's signal, she ignores the larger glass I hold out to her and fills the much smaller one, the one meant for Tributes who most likely have never tasted wine before, and I don't even get my usual top up after I gulp down half the contents of the glass. Telling the boy to shut up has clearly cost me. Effie makes a point of declining the wine, asking for a glass of lemonade instead. 

The girl, who will never be old enough to develop an appreciation for alcohol, follows Effie’s example and drinks a glass of lemonade, ignoring the wine in front of her. 

Even if Effie had not cut me off, I could never sit idly by while good booze goes to waste.

I realise my mistake in trying to snatch something from a Seam kid about a split second before she whacks my hand away with the flat of her fork.

Rather than showing the little brat the back of my hand, I decide to kill two birds with one stone and show Effie how much these losers and their ‘potential’ really amount to. I grab the butter knife from a dish in the middle of the table and take a swing at the girl. My second mistake. She doesn’t even seem to be looking at me, having given her full focus to her plate after defending her wine, but she’s moving as soon as I pick up the knife. By the time the blade passes through the empty air where her neck was, she’s kicked back from the table, knocking her chair over and launching herself over the back of it. Her hand blurs, and the only thing that saves me is that I lost my balance and nearly fell over sideways when I lunged at her. I hear the unmistakable _thunk_ of a knife sticking in wood, and as I turn my head, my entire view is taken up by the sight of the boy diving over the table, roaring as he flies at me.

Despite his size, the force with which he hits me still seems like more than he should be capable of, and every breath of air in my lungs is lost when I hit the ground with him on top of me. His knee hits me hard in the gut, instantly making me want to throw up again, and before I can even begin to react, a massive fist threatens to completely unhinge my jaw. Pain explodes across the left side of my face and my mouth instantly begins to fill with blood. He’s got one of my arms pinned, and I can’t seem find any strength in the other or do a damn thing at all as the kid's fist draws back a second time, his face purple with rage.

He starts when a tiny hand clamps around his beefy wrist. “Let him up,” she orders, and he’s off me in an instant.

Air rushes into my lungs, only for me to choke. I turn on my side and retch up a torrent of bloody, acidic liquid. Thinking that’s it, I’m struggling to my feet when it happens again, and it suddenly occurs to me to wonder when I last ate.

Still sputtering, the room spinning and the pain in my face worsening, I finally manage to pick myself up off the floor and slump against the wall. Some small, petty slice of my mind notices with satisfaction that my horrible Capitol clothes are as thoroughly ruined as the carpet, and the boy's nice clean Reaping clothes didn’t fare much better. He took half the table with him when he leapt at me, and seems to be wearing as much food as wound up on the floor.

"He used the blunt edge of the knife," the girl is telling Bannock, her voice as calm as if she were describing the weather, but she's watching him nervously. He's still shaking with rage, but the look on his face is sheer confusion. I glance over at Effie Trinket, still sitting dumbstruck in her chair, her mouth hanging open as she gapes at the scene before her. Probably upset about the ruined carpet.

"Wouldn't have left much more than a bruise, slow as he is."

I open my mouth to voice my indignation and the agony in my face reduces me to incoherent spluttering. I hadn’t been aiming to really hurt her, but she damn well would have known she’d been hit. I think.

Effie's chair scrapes across the floor and she almost falls out of it. "Oh, dear," she breathes, and well follow her eyes to my chair. The kid is more than just fast; she's a lot stronger than she looks. A good inch of her steak knife is embedded in the heavy wood. If I hadn't stumbled, that would have been my face. "That's mahogany..."

The boy makes a sound like a choking bear, and doubles over with laughter. The girl looks around at us all like we're completely insane. I think she should try looking in a mirror.

Before I can start laughing too, Effie Trinket is in my face, or at least as close to my face as her heels will allow, shrieking insensibly. I catch a few words here and there, but my head is pounding, my face is burning, and I'm not sure she's speaking in only the one language.

I spit up more blood at her feet, and she recoils with a squeak. One hand flies to her suddenly green face and she falls backward into my somehow upright chair, bumping her head off the knife handle. "Now, if you could please just stay that way and _quietly_ enjoy the fact that you were right for once?!" I hiss at her, and every word makes the pain worse. Grabbing a napkin off the floor, I fill it with ice, which is the only thing the attendants didn't take away from the drinks station, and hold it to my jaw.

I motion for the kids to follow me over to the lounge area. "Let's give them a while to tidy up. I'm sure someone in the main car is having a heart attack at the state of this place."

Effie takes a second to free her tangled wig from the knife handle before prancing after us, then clutches the girl, examines her briefly until she is satisfied that she’s not hurt before she releases her and gently pushes her into the chair furthest from me. The same pair who cleaned up the earlier mess return, one of them muttering under his breath. Between me and the boy, they'll never save that carpet.

I ignore them, and try to ignore the increasingly sharp pain in my jaw. Damn kid doesn’t seem to have broken it, but he loosened some teeth at the very least. I pluck a surviving glass from the floor near my feet, spitting blood into it. “Let’s have it,” I begin, locking eyes with the boy. “Clearly you’re strong,” I groan, brandishing the glass. “Any other skills I should know about? Any sports at school?"

“I’m in the wrestling club, and I play some _Blitz_ at lunchtimes.”

This is already more promising than most of the forty Tributes I’ve brought to the Capitol so far. _Blitz_ is a pretty rough sport, less about the ball than the people kicking each other around. It isn't exactly legal, since the Capitol won't pay to watch a bunch of kids destroying each other if they haven't been prettied up for the cameras first.

I know from other Victors that in other Districts, besides One, Two and Four, the schools can expect to have the Peacekeepers cracking down on them if they do anything that could be construed as trying to train kids for the Games in advance, including teaching them any sport that could possibly help them in hand-to-hand combat should they be selected as Tributes. Nobody in Twelve would believe me if I could tell them that we actually have it better than most. I would never have believed it before my Victory Tour and before I had a chance to talk to some of the other Victors. Old Cray may be a sleazy bastard, but he’s not about to send troops into the school to arrest the coach of the wrestling club, or to break up games of _Blitz_.

“Ever handled any weapons?”

“Does a woodcutter’s axe count?”

“Remind me to introduce you to Johanna. You two can compare notes. Just remember your manners, and you might live long enough to make it until the arena.”

“I’m nowhere near as good as Johanna Mason,” the boy tells me.

“It’s still a start. You’re strong, so concentrate on the heavier weapons in training; learn to fight with an axe and throw one, to swing a mace and a club. Most of the Tributes won’t even be able to lift them. And whatever you do, don’t ignore the survival stations. You’re bigger than a lot of the Careers I’ve seen in my time but they always make the mistake of turning their noses up at the lessons in survival skills so they can spend their training time showing off with weapons and scaring the other Tributes. They always rely on the supplies in the cornucopia and it ends up costing them if anything happens to it.” The Careers might be the favourites of the Capitol, especially the ones from District One, but they never like to see them have too easy a time of it so, every so often, the Gamemakers see to it that their supplies are destroyed. “Don’t make the same mistake.” The boy nods. The girl hasn’t said a word but she’s listening intently to everything I’m saying. “What about you, sweetheart? What do you do when the furniture fights back?”

“I shoot it," she snaps, her eyes narrowing. ”Bow and arrow."

I blink at her. _This_ kid is a hunter? “And are you any good?”

“She’s the best,” the boy cuts in. “She sells her squirrels to my father. He says that she always hits them square in the eye. A couple of months ago, she even took out a lynx.”

The girl opens her mouth, then shuts it again, smirking a little. There's something funny about the lynx story, or at least funny to her. I look her over properly. She may be crazy, but there's something there. All of the kids in the Seam tend to look the same to me so I can’t say for sure that I recognise her from the Hob but there are just a tiny handful of people who ever dare to venture beyond the fence, only one man I know of who hunts with a bow, and only one man who always brings his little girl with him to the Hob when he comes to trade. If she is the girl I think she is, and she has half of her father’s talent, I may have something special on my hands. “Does your father take you out hunting with him?”

“He did,” she tells me in a flat tone, her face hardening into an expressionless mask.

Whoops. "What happened to him?" 

"Mine explosion. Last year." She bites out each word, shaking with anger.

"We should all be lucky enough to go so quickly," I tell her coolly.

Effie hisses at my apparently shameful manners, and the boy looks ready to pounce again. I ignore them, silently watching Katniss, trying to give my throbbing face a rest and take a moment to think where I’ve seen the sullen little firebrand in front of me. I can vaguely recall a smiling little girl walking hand in hand through the Hob with her father, who I knew to say hello to, a long time ago. 

Then I have to choke back a laugh, mostly because my face can't handle the strain. Every boy and girl in our class knew this girl's father all too well, after the role he played in the biggest scandal we'd ever witnessed. The apothecary's daughter, beautiful and haughty Callie Thornesong, had been all set to marry the butcher's boy, as their parents had agreed years earlier, but everyone had been expecting her to throw him over for Simnel Mellark. Then, barely a month after her last Reaping, she was living in the Seam and married to a mouthy coal miner; a hunter who all-but flaunted his criminal enterprise, as most of our grim Head Peacekeeper's subordinates bought from him. 

He eventually learned his lesson on being boastful, and the girl at least has a little bit of self-control; she drops her eyes after glaring at me for a bit.

If her father died in last year’s big mine explosion, this girl has been braving the woods alone for more than a year. Most kids don’t dare to approach the fence, and would never dream of crossing it, least of all alone but this girl not only goes into the woods, she has been able to thrive there. I reach out to briefly squeeze her upper arms to feel the slender muscles beneath her skin. She’s rail thin but there’s more to her than the usual Seam scrawniness, a strength that belies her size. She wouldn’t be any use as a hunter if she wasn’t strong enough to draw a bow and carry her kills back to District Twelve. She’s got spunk, probably more than I’ve seen in any of the Tributes I’ve had so far, but it’s not going to do her any good.

If she was five years older, this girl would be a force to be reckoned with, small and slender enough not to alarm the Careers in training and ensure that every one of them would be gunning for her as soon as the gong sounded but strong, skilled and resourceful enough to have a real chance of winning. I would have to wrestle with the question of which of them I should try to save; the ox of a baker’s son who could pit his strength against any of the boys that the Career Districts will have to offer, or the firebrand who can survive adversity and who could have the guts to do whatever it takes to make it out of the arena.

Maybe I should be grateful that the choice can be an easy one.

The boy could have a shot at coming out of the arena alive. The girl is just too damn tiny to be able to go up against highly trained Careers three times her size or to survive the machinations of the Gamemakers.

The servers have nearly finished cleaning up the mess we left so it won’t be long before they are ready to lay out fresh plates and bring us the rest of our dinner. I decide to leave the real strategy talk until we’re at the Training Centre and focus on the first hurdle they’ll have to face once they reach the Capitol.

“We’ll reach the Capitol tomorrow morning, after breakfast,” I tell them. “Get a good night’s sleep tonight, while you can. As soon as we pull into the station, you’ll be taken straight to the Remake Centre and put into the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you but, whatever you do, don’t resist. Be polite if you can manage it. The Tribute parade is your first chance to make an impression and you do not want these people getting into a huff and doing a half-assed job with you.”

“I’m not going naked!” the boy protests immediately.

“Don’t sell yourself short. You need to make an impression, after all.” I let him think about that for a moment, about just how far he is going to have to go if he wants to survive, before setting his mind at ease on one front. “Relax, boy. Nudity won’t be on the cards this year, not with somebody as tiny as our little sweetheart in the mix. Even the worst stylists have to follow some basic guidelines for decency, at least in public.” Even the perverts in the Capitol who’d get a thrill out of seeing a little girl paraded in front of them wearing nothing but a thin dusting of black powder would never admit to wanting to see it, not in polite society, so it’ll be coal miners’ outfits and headlamps again this year. Appius and Cloelia have never felt the need to put in any real effort for Twelve.

“Ah,” Effie trills when an attendant returns with fresh plates of food. She gets up and leads the way over to the table, which is now spotless and laid with a fresh tablecloth and silverware, as though our brawl never happened. “It’s time for us to finish our dinner.”

She glares at me as she struts away. Probably best I don't ask for another glass of wine. Before leaving I grab the ice bucket still on the table for my throbbing face.

* * *

The next morning, the entire left side of my face is purple and seems to have swelled up to twice it's normal size. My throat is a little bruised where Effie caught me, but it’s easy enough to ignore next to the damage the boy caused. I order some ice cold water, but can barely manage to sip on it without spilling all over myself. There's point even trying to eat, and I don't think I could anyway. Miserable and sore, I sit in my room until the train pulls into its destination.

Any other year, the first order of business after sending Effie off with the brats would be to track down Chaff and a bottle of the Capitol’s best whiskey, and find a quiet spot where we can drink in peace until we have to join the other Victors for the Tribute parade. This year I need it more than ever - my entire body is screaming for a drink. There isn't a power in the world that would make Chaff refuse me, and I know that despite what the kid did to my face, I'd find a way to get it into me.

I don't know why I end up following Effie and the kids to the Remake Centre, and apparently neither does Effie. She doesn't say a word about it, but I catch her glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, always surprised to find me still there. For all her insistence that I would be a 'real mentor' this year, she didn't expect that I'd actually go along with it.

Neither did I.

It looks like we have new prep teams. My heart sinks when I catch sight of the pair milling around the Remake Centre lobby yoo-hooing for 'Miss Trinket'. It's impossible to say which of them is the most freakish-looking and I can’t imagine that a woman who thinks that dying her skin the colour of broccoli is the height of fashion or a man willing to appear in public with orange corkscrew curls and purple lipstick are going to be able to be of the slightest use in helping the kids make an impression.

I’m ready to order the strongest drink they have and let Effie wrestle it from my hand, if she can, when it finally sinks in that their ravings about ‘Cinna’ and ‘Portia’ aren’t their attempts to flatter one another but their ringing endorsement of the stylists they work for. New stylists too, then. I really should have just met up with Chaff.

Whenever there's a change to the stylist roster, Twelve always get either the newest idiots or the most irrelevant burnouts, and they never appreciate being assigned the coal district. Bracing for the worst, dying for a drink, I follow Orange and Broccoli upstairs to the section designated for District Twelve.

A man with spiky scarlet hair, silver tattoos, and crimson gems embedded in his teeth emerges from one of the prep rooms to take charge of the boy while Broccoli leads the girl into the other prep room, leaving Orange to show the grown-ups into one of the sitting rooms where the stylists are waiting to greet us.

I feel instant relief at the sight of them.

The woman’s hair, a slightly softer orange than the other one, is a little off-putting but the smile of welcome she gives us is genuine and something in her eyes tells me that, unlike most of the vacant twits we get stuck with, there’s a brain under all that hair. The man has to be the most normal looking Capitolite I've ever seen in black pants, a simple dark green shirt and no makeup at all. He even manages to sound sincere when he tells me that he’s happy to be working with District Twelve. They both take in the damage to my face with unsubtle curiosity, but nobody comments.

When they offer me a drink, my request for coffee leaves Effie gaping at me until I glare at her. If she wants me drunk, I'd be happy to oblige. 

There’s a screen set on one wall, featuring a slideshow of images of my Tributes, from the moment their names were called at the Reaping to the footage of them getting on the train in Twelve and off again in the station at the Capitol, to the recordings of them when they entered the Remake Centre.

“So who gets who?” I slur through barely movable lips, certain that they must have fought it out amongst themselves about who got the boy as soon as they watched the Reaping.

“I’ll take Katniss, Portia can have Bannock,” Cinna tells me, surprising me with the fact that he bothered to learn the kids’ names in advance. It’s even more of a surprise that he doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that he got stuck with the girl, who will need a lot more work than the boy before the Capitol will ever buy her as any kind of contender for the Victor’s crown. “What can you tell us about them?”

There's something odd about the way he talks. It's not quite Capitol. Put together with his clothes and lack of freakish adornments, I think I know why this Cinna is so happy to be working with District Twelve. Odds are he's lucky to be working at all after all the mentors from the more popular districts refused to accept him. They all want the best, and if there's one thing the Capitolites know better than any District charity case, it's fashion. Maybe his father is a higher up in his District, capable of pulling strings to get him working for a Capitol designer. But there was no string to pull to make the Career mentors let him work on their kids, so I get stuck with him.

They probably thought I'd be too far gone to even notice. Most years they'd be right. I don't like the idea of being stuck with the reject among rejects, but it's not like we've ever had a good stylist anyway. I might as well accept it.

“He’s strong, and can fight when he needs to.” My face and voice are a pretty clear testament to this. “His father is the baker, so he eats better than most of the District, and he’s no stranger to hard work. It shouldn’t be hard to sell him as a physical terror.” Portia nods absently, her eyes flicking between the boy on the screen and a sketchpad in her lap.

“What about Katniss?” Cinna asks.

I hesitate for a few moments before deciding to tell them everything I know. There are no Peacekeepers within earshot and these two are likely to be as trustworthy as anybody in the Capitol can be. Maybe even a little more so, I think, eyeing Cinna carefully. “She’s a hunter, been supporting her family for at least a year now. The boy tells me that she's amazing with a bow and the fact that she’s sneaking past the boundary shows that she’s got guts. She’s small but she’s a firebrand.” 

Cinna nods at this before turning his attention to the images on the screen. I attempt a sip of coffee while he taps a few controls on the panel next to him, calling up an image of the kids at the train station in Twelve, just before Effie ushered them onto the train, and zooming in on Katniss. “What is that?” he asks, pointing at the gold pin attached to the collar of her blouse. My breath catches. Maysilee.

That's Maysilee Donner's pin. How did I not notice that she was wearing it? How did it come to her? Did the Donners give it to her mother when it was returned to them with Maysilee’s body?

“It’s a mockingjay,” I finally mutter. I can’t tell them about Maysilee and am glad that none of them can remember that this isn’t the first time that a Tribute from District Twelve brought that pin to the Capitol.

“Interesting,” is all Cinna says.

I wonder if he knows just how interesting it is. He may know much better than most in the Capitol what the mockingjay means to the people in the Districts, not just as a creature that lived and thrived despite the Capitol but as the symbol of one of the most extreme rebel factions, the last one to keep fighting after Thirteen was obliterated and the rest of the country was ready to agree to anything to be spared the same fate, even if it meant allowing their children to suffer and die as punishment for their uprising.

“There's something else you should know," Portia says, interrupting my thoughts. "My original partner and I were meant to be working for District One. He took ill only yesterday, and by the time I persuaded Cinna to take his place, I'd already been replaced. The plans and themes I had prepared were all with District One in mind. Older Tributes, and more suitable for a showy theme." She looks apologetic at that last bit, but she's not wrong. If there's one thing District Twelve isn't, it's glamorous. Then again, this could actually work out in Twelve's favour. It also seems I was wrong about Cinna being dumped on us. It was the other way around. They had to take Twelve or nothing.

“So no coal miners’ outfits.” 

“No coal miners’ outfits,” Cinna confirms. “I was hoping to do a flame theme.”

“But there isn't time," Portia interrupts. She's going for gentle, but I think she's a little tired of hearing about Cinna's wants. "For now, we have to adapt our original plans for District One to your kids. We may be able to pattern the stones to introduce the flames, and then build on it later, maybe for the interview.”

If I was still young and stupid enough to believe in miracles, I might be getting a little hopeful around now. In the same year I finally get a Tribute who might stand a chance of walking out of the arena, I also land stylists who might actually be able to get him some sponsors.

Much to own surprise, I find myself looking forward to working with them, and think that maybe I might actually come to like them, when Portia leaves the room for a moment and returns with a member of her prep team in tow, a woman with curling purple eyelashes as long as my little finger brushing against cheeks embedded with tiny gemstones, and buttercup yellow hair woven into a complicated knot on the top of her head.

“While Lucius and Pullo are getting Bannock ready, I thought that it would be a good idea if you spent a little time with Vorena,” she suggests, diplomatically pretending not to see the scowl on my face.

Makeovers are one indignity I've been able to avoid ever since my Victory Tour, and it feels like this is a hell of a lot to ask of me after Effie already had the attendants on the train scrub me from head to toe less than twenty-four hours ago, but I nod in response to Portia’s suggestion, knowing that, now that I’ve started, I may as well see this through. Even if Bannock turns out to be as promising as yesterday suggested, he’ll still need help of some kind as the Games progress; water, food, matches, medicine. The rich Capitolites with money to burn on sponsorship expect to have somebody respectable to deal with, and it’s bound to stroke their egos if they think that I got prettied up for their benefit.

“Don’t worry,” Vorena says sweetly, coming over to pull me to my feet so she can lead me away to my doom. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

* * *

True to her word, Vorena is gentle with me, or as gentle as any member of a prep team ever is. 

I’m released from her clutches before the kids are ready and she restricted herself to ordering me into a shower programmed with spicy-smelling foam, trimming my hair and lightly styling it, shaving my face and dressing me in a tailored black suit with the edges of the lapels trimmed in tiny yellow, orange, red and gold gemstones. One area she wouldn't take any arguments from me is makeup, insisting on hiding my 'wreck of a face' after what Bannock did to me. I very carefully avoid mirrors once she's done.

There’s just enough time for me to get a quick look at the kids before they’re shepherded away for the parade.

Portia and Cinna have dressed them in skin-tight black unitards covered with black diamonds and opals to signify coal. Their costumes are also studded with coloured gemstones like the ones on my lapels, patterned in the shape of candle flames. Each stylist has added small individual touches to their Tribute. The boy is wearing a pair of black combat pants over his unitard and the way he stands over the girl makes him look more like her bodyguard than her district partner. It looks like there was no room for her mockingjay pin among the stones, but Cinna apparently wanted it seen, as it's been affixed to a thin black satin belt around her waist. Other than the dark eye shadow that makes her eyes look huge, there’s little by the way of makeup. Her hair is in twin braids, crisscrossed atop her head and secured in place with red and gold hair clasps that look like flames at first, until I get a closer look at them and see that the design is of feathers rather than flames. 

“Valkyrie,” Cinna says, like the word is supposed to mean something to me.

Effie thanks the stylists profusely for all of their hard work and, for once, I can second her without sarcasm.

Once the kids have been led away to their chariot, I make my way to the balcony reserved for the mentors, and any other Victors who have tagged along to enjoy the hospitality of the Capitol.

As usual, the mentors from the Career districts sit in a cluster on one end of the balcony, talking in hushed tones and ignoring the rest of us. 

Annie Cresta, the girl from District Four who won last year, is sitting between Finnick Odair and Cara Aldjoy, the mentors for this year. It’s no surprise to see Finnick there; even if President Snow didn’t insist that he attend every year, no boy from District Four would ever get any sponsors if the Capitol was denied the pleasure of ogling Finnick, no matter how hard his replacement tried to woo them. The female Victors share the duties of mentoring among themselves but, as this is Annie’s first year as a Victor, she has to be here to shadow Cara and learn what will be expected of her when it’s her turn to be the mentor. I can tell at a glance that she’s having a hard time holding it together, clutching Finnick’s hand in both of hers to keep herself from crying and screaming. There’s nothing of the confident Career Tribute we saw last year left in this shattered girl.

I imagine Finnick and the others will see to it that this is the last time that she will have to come to the Capitol, if they can avoid it. District Four has enough Victors that they can do without Annie as a mentor.

It’s the one thing I envy Annie.

I’m selfish enough to wish the life of a Victor on Bannock Mellark if it means that I no longer have to cope with all of this alone, year after year.

Chaff has saved the seat next to him for me and he greets me with a warm smile and a slap on the shoulder. As soon as I'm sat down he produces a flask unscrews the lid and takes a sip before offering it to me. I was shaking all through the prep work, and just the smell of the whiskey has me breaking out in a cold sweat I know one sip will cure. Suppressing a groan, I shake my head. Chaff doesn't question me or look surprised; he just shrugs and sets the open flask on the floor between us, within easy reach for when I want it. This is going to be a long night.

I’ve just wrenched my eyes away from the flask when Johanna Mason flings herself into the seat next to mine, scowling.

“Did you see my Tribute for this year?” she demands by way of greeting.

We all did. 

Every year, mentors, escorts and Tributes gather together on each of the twelve Tribute trains to watch a recap of the reaping. It’s the first chance to get a look at the competition so nobody misses it, not even me. This year, the boy from District Seven looks like he might actually have some potential. He looks to be about seventeen and has been felling trees for some time now, if his buff build is any indication. If Blight can keep his focus, he might actually be able to make something of his Tribute. Johanna wasn’t as lucky. Her Tribute is a girl of fourteen or fifteen whose right foot has been amputated above the ankle.

Seeder reaches out to lay a hand on Johanna’s arm, shaking her head almost imperceptibly to remind her that this is neither the time nor the place for her to rant against the Capitol for forcing a crippled child into the arena.

“Finnick’s not too happy about his Tribute either,” Chaff chimes in with forced good cheer. “The way I hear it, he and the trainers had their boy chosen months ago, one who could have given Finnick a run for his money with a trident, and they thought that they were all set for another win. Next thing they know, some kid from their training program, a boy about fifteen or so, got the jump on the chosen one at the Reaping and was the first to volunteer. He refused to withdraw so there was nothing they could do about it and Finnick’s stuck with him.” 

“Idiot!” Johanna growls contemptuously. “Couldn’t he wait another few years to die?”

“He probably thinks that he’ll make more of a splash if he wins young,” I point out. Most districts would be thrilled with any Victor, because it’s so rare for them to see one of their Tributes return except in a coffin and because it means that they’ll have enough to eat for a year, but the Career Districts win often enough that this is no longer enough for them. Their Victors compete among themselves for who has the most kills, who prevails against the worst odds, who the Capitol finds most impressive. Victors who don’t distinguish themselves tend to fade into the background once their Tour is over, the lucky bastards. This boy, whoever he is, has his eye on a greater prize than any ordinary victory, and it’s likely to get him killed.

A fanfare sounds to let everybody know that the parade is about to begin.

Beneath the Victor’s balcony, I can see row after row of brightly coloured Capitolites all but bouncing in their seats, craning their necks to be the first to catch a glimpse of this year’s Tributes. Most of them have roses of varying hues clutched in their fists, ready to be thrown at whichever Tribute catches their fancy. Even with over a hundred thousand seats available, tickets to the parade are highly prized and sell for a fortune.

As always, District One leads the procession. I’m surprised when I see what their stylists have decked them out in. You can usually count on District One to dazzle but this year’s Tributes are swathed in magenta velvet and fur, with ridiculous jeweled headpieces. Even Effie wouldn’t be seen in something like it… well, _probably_ not. Luckily for them, One never sends a kid to the Capitol if they aren’t good-looking and the pair they’ve chosen for this year are no exception to the rule. Despite their costumes, they draw admiring cheers from the crowd as they pass them by. Even District Two’s Tributes are overshadowed by them, though they’re bound to make up for it when the time comes to reveal the training scores. The pair from District Three wave shyly at a crowd that pays little attention to them. 

I’m curious about the boy from District Four, the kid who broke the rules to rush into the Games a few years early. He’s a handsome kid and he knows it. He stands tall in his chariot, waving at the crowd as regally as President Snow ever could and smirking like he’s in no doubt that they will adore him. Just about every Career Tribute is arrogant, taught to think of victory as theirs for the taking, but this boy is even worse than most. Arrogance can be a very dangerous thing in the arena, one way or another.

The Tributes that follow are met with a much more subdued response than the Careers, their costumes more of the usual rubbish that the stylists truss the outlying Districts into. Johanna growls under her breath as her Tributes ride past in tree costumes so stiff that the poor kids can barely move, muttering something about sticking her axe in the stylists’ faces. The pair from District Ten have to be the worst off, though; apparently their stylists decided to try to be creative this year and, instead of the usual ranch worker or cow costumes, they’ve draped the kids in hanks of meat to form a sort of tunic of sorts, thereby ensuring that, not only will none of the other Tributes find them the least bit threatening, any would-be sponsors in the audience will be repulsed.

When the chariot carrying my Tributes comes into view, bringing up the rear of the procession, the novelty of seeing District Twelve Tributes in something other than skimpy miners’ outfits or coal dust is enough to draw the attention of the audience and, once they get a closer look at them, their interest turns to cheers of approval.

They must have stood the girl on a platform of some kind so people could get a proper look at her and her costume. The top of her head reaches the boy’s shoulder. The glow of the torches is reflected in the hair clasps Cinna put on her and, for a moment, it looks as though there are flames rising from her hair. She’s managed to dredge up a little charm for the occasion and she waves and smiles at the crowd as her chariot makes its way down the processional path. The crowd responds eagerly enough, cheering and applauding.

The flame-tipped accents on the boy’s costume make his shoulders look even broader. He stands tall in his chariot, a little grim, but waving. The women in the audience are especially impressed by him; a chorus of whistles and catcalls follows him all along the route.

For the first time in living memory, District Twelve makes a splash at the opening ceremonies. 

People are even going to the trouble of checking the programmes so they can call to the kids by name.

I’d enjoy the novelty of having Tributes who are admired by the crowd a lot more if my stomach wasn’t churning, threatening to spill everything I’ve eaten in the last few days. Which isn't much, I realise. I left most of my stomach contents in Cray's office yesterday, and of course I haven't tried to eat anything else since having my jaw pulverised. Being this hungry probably isn't helping with everything else. I wonder if I can stomach the idea of asking Effie Trinket to get me an appointment with a doctor.

As the twelve chariots ride into the City Circle, taking their places in a large semi-circle for the President’s address, the cameras cut to the Tributes from each of the Districts in turn at first but, after that, they alternate almost exclusively between Districts One and Twelve rather than cutting between shots of all of the Career Tributes, as they usually do. I can practically feel Brutus glaring at me for daring to steal his Tributes’ thunder. Enobaria probably wants to rip my throat out with her teeth. I’d be worried if we didn’t all know that the Peacekeeper response to any brawling among Victors would be swift and brutal. Brutus and Enobaria aren’t quite crazy enough to try anything. Even Sparkly and Shiny, or whatever the hell their parents named them, are fuming by the end when, after President Snow finally shuts up about the Tributes’ courage and sacrifice, the camera holds on the District Twelve chariot as it makes a final slow pass around the City Circle before following the others into the Training Centre.

Finnick claps me on the shoulder before I can make my way down from the mentors’ balcony to the Training Centre.

“You owe District One a ‘thank you’,” he informs me cheerfully.

“What for?” Sparkly and Shiny barely deign to acknowledge my existence at the best of times. 

“That.” He waves one arm in the direction of the nearest screen, which features a larger than life replay of my Tributes’ ride into the City Circle, along with reaction shots from the crowd. “Your stylists were supposed to be assigned to One but Cashmere threw some kind of fit. Gloss goes along with everything she says, so they got Appius and Cloelia and the other two were assigned to you."

“What was Sparkly’s problem?” I can guess; maybe I had it right the first time about the Capitol favourites refusing to allow Cinna on their team. I can't really be mad at Portia for covering for him. District Twelve is a hit thanks to them, after all.

Finnick shrugs. "Cashmere has too many problems to keep track of. Maybe they didn't fawn over her enough."

"Of course you couldn't relate to that at all."

Finnick chuckles grimly. Sometimes the only way to deal with the horrible parts of life is to try and laugh it off. "Never. I always have my legions falling over themselves to get a piece of me."

We’re the last ones on the balcony so we can’t stick around. I have to jog to catch up with the stragglers as we make our way into the Training Centre to reunite with our escorts and collect our Tributes.

Effie is all smiles as she greets the kids, engulfing them both in hugs as soon as Cinna and Portia have helped them down from the chariot. “You were wonderful! Everybody is sure to be talking about us now!” She pounces on the stylists next, shaking their hands so enthusiastically that I think she might manage to dislocate their shoulders. “Those costumes were remarkable, so much better that anything we’ve had since I’ve been escort!”

“They really were something special.” As much as it pains me to agree with Effie, I have to second her on that.

Portia accepts our praise graciously but, while Cinna nods, he looks a little disappointed.

“I was hoping that we would have the flames perfected in time for the parade. Nobody would have forgotten them,” he says wistfully. He reaches out to straighten one of the girl’s hair clasps. “I’ll have them ready for your interview, Katniss, no matter what it takes,” he vows to her, muttering something about a girl on fire. Well, as long as he doesn't roast the boy along with her.

“Maybe we’d better take this upstairs,” I suggest, noticing that we’ve attracted quite a bit of attention from mentors, stylists and some of the Career Tributes. If Cinna has something special planned, the last thing we need is for them to overhear him and copy his idea, especially as my kids will always be the last shown.

Effie agrees that it’s time for us to go to our quarters and takes charge.

“So, each of the districts get their own floor and because you’re from District Twelve, you get the penthouse,” she tells the kids as she shepherds them over to the elevator, demonstrating that all they need to do to get to our floor is to press the button with their district number on it, a wasted lesson, given that they’re not supposed to put a toe outside of the living quarters without Effie or a Peacekeeper escorting them. If they do manage to slip away, it won’t take long for them to be delivered back to our suite.

The girl’s eyes are round with wonder as she takes in the glass elevator and even the boy can’t hide his awe. The only elevator in District Twelve, apart from the lifts that take the men down to the deepest recesses of the mines, is the one in the Justice Building, which they will have seen exactly once – or twice in the girl’s case; Mayor Undersee always presents a medal of some kind to the families of those lost to mining accidents – and which is covered in stains and, for some reason, always smells like sour milk.

Their awe at the elevator is nothing compared to the expression on their faces when the doors open to reveal the penthouse apartment that will be their home for the next six days, until they are sent into the arena.

My house in Victors’ Village is - or was - a palace by District Twelve’s standards, but beyond simple next to this.

“So this is the living room,” Effie tells them, smiling indulgently at their amazement at the sight of their plush surroundings. “I know, I know.” She gives them a brief tour, pointing out the sitting and dining areas before leading them away to their rooms, suggesting that they change out of their costumes and clean themselves up a little before dinner, which is due to be served in an hour. They follow her obediently, too overwhelmed by the grandeur of their surroundings to do anything else.

The tremors are getting worse, and my protesting stomach won't be ignored any longer. I leave her to the tour and make my way to the room I use every year, determined to hold it together until I’m alone.

I make it to the bathroom just in time and discover that not only can I really open my mouth when it's a question of my choking to death, but that there was a lot more in my stomach than I knew. By the time I'm done I can only slump against the wall right there. My throat is burning, my face hurts more than ever, and I have no idea how I’m going to survive the next couple of weeks, let alone be any use to the boy when he’s in the arena.

A few minutes later, I hear the door slide open behind me and turn to see a truly beautiful sight.

Even the fact that the glass is in Effie’s hand can’t diminish my joy.

She wrinkles her nose in distaste at the stench and takes a few steps in my direction, making sure to stay a safe distance away from me and the toilet as she passes the crystal tumbler into my outstretched hand. This is a very wise move on her part as I feel like I could blow again at any minute. It’s heavily diluted but I’m in no position to be picky. I down it carefully, but as quickly as I can manage.

“How did your interview with Crane go?” I ask her once my glass is empty, doing my best to sound like I could care less. Even Capitolites can find themselves in huge trouble if they piss off the people in charge. I'll never like Effie Trinket, but it could actually be worse. The last thing I need is a new escort.

“Well enough,” she tells me, although her brow is creased in a slight frown that leaves thin cracks in her white make-up. “While he agreed that I had no alternative but to proceed with the Reaping in your absence, given the state you were in, he admonished me for cutting off your supply. Apparently he prefers you as a wreck. Someday, you will have to tell me what you did to earn such dislike from a Senior Gamemaker.”

“Someday,” I echo, knowing that that’s a story I will never tell anybody, least of all Effie Trinket.

She doesn’t need to hear stories about my time in the arena and I couldn’t stomach the idea of confiding in her about my family. She wouldn’t want to know that twenty-one years ago, when Senaca Crane was a newly appointed apprentice taken under the wing of the Head Gamemaker during the Second Quarter Quell, his mentor paid the price for my victory, for giving me the opportunity to turn the arena that was meant to kill me into a weapon I could wield against another Tribute; a Career who had been the favourite to win.

She won't want to know how Crane took his revenge.

It doesn’t take Effie long to realise that there is no way that she is going to get any answers from me, and I’d say that, deep down, she knows that she doesn’t want them.

"At any rate, I've arranged a visit from a doctor," she says. "Unlike Crane, he'd probably prefer I hadn't given you that drink, but since most everyone I've met today is already furious with me over something or other, one doctor won't make much of a difference.

"He'll be here in a moment. The kitchen staff are holding dinner for us until you're ready."

She turns on her heel and leaves, sparing me the further humiliation of having to thank her.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Bannock** _

I never want to leave this bed.

Even back home, I'm lucky. I get my own bed, while Peeta and Rye have to share. But compared to _this_ , calling what I sleep in above the bakery a bed seems extremely generous. At home, my feet would be hanging over the end of a worn and lumpy mattress, any which way I turned would just mean different springs poking at me, and anything more than the slightest of movements while I slept would promptly deposit me on the floor.

This bed alone is bigger than the room I share with my brothers, and so soft I feel like I could sink right through it. When I saw it I'd been convinced I wouldn't sleep at all. I couldn't have been more wrong; not only did I sleep the whole night through, but I didn't even dream. I expected a long night of hellish landscapes, terrifying muttations and torn corpses. Of Claudius Templesmith cackling with glee at the horror in the arena. Of my family, ghoulish faces bloodless and rotting as they laughed along with him at the gruesome tortures I endured and carried out on others. What I got was the single most peaceful night of my life.

The nightmarish visions of the previous day politely waited for me to wake up before returning.

Knowing they won't go away, and that either Haymitch or, more likely, Effie will be at my door if I stay in bed much longer, I clamber out of bed and into the bathroom.

The shower has more buttons than I can begin to imagine functions for. Those which are labelled all denote flowers and spices. I ignore them and stick to what look like the main controls, get a scalding stream of water running, and leave it at that. I like their beds, but I'm not about to go around smelling like one of these idiots.

I'm in there only a couple of minutes, but when I step back into the bedroom, the bed has been made and clothes laid out. Did an alarm go off when I stepped into the shower, letting the attendants know I was up? Are there hidden cameras in the bedroom? I shudder. With these people, a camera in the shower itself wouldn't surprise me. I gave up any illusions of privacy when I was lying completely naked in a reclining chair while Portia's prep team hovered over me, all three cooing over my body with delight as they scrubbed me down a little too eagerly, and Pullo went about trimming and styling hair in places nobody's likely to see anytime soon. Or so I hope.

The earthy brown pants are similar to the black ones I wore in the parade, if not as strategically tight. An olive-green t-shirt is followed by an odd jacket, all green and brown leaf patterns that seem to change with the light. I hold up a sleeve, waving it in front of the window to confirm the dizzying effect, and instantly know anybody hiding in a tree or bush wearing something like this would be almost invisible. I can picture Katniss wearing something like this when she hunts, though whatever the material is that's responsible for the fluid colour-shifting, I know that nobody in the Districts could even dream of being able to afford it. I lace up the soft-soled brown leather boots that complete the outfit, and with one last longing look at the bed I make my way out to the dining room.

I'm the last to arrive. Effie appears distressed, with Portia and Cinna looking on in quiet concern as she warily pushes a small plate of toast in front of Haymitch. He shakes his head, takes a sip of coffee instead. His face is deathly pale on one side, purple on the other, clammy and drawn all over. His clothes look slept in, though they're not the ones he wore to the parade. Maybe his clothes have something in common with mine, changing their appearance to conform with a beaten up, broken down old drunk.

Despite the damage I caused him, I can't really feel any sympathy for Haymitch. His face and body were in ruins anyway, and the rest of the damage was entirely of his own doing. Besides, I tell myself; if the result of his humiliation at mine and Katniss' hands - as well as Effie apparently forcing a limit on his alcohol intake - is that he finally starts to act like a mentor, it might actually be worth it.

And sometimes all it takes is one instance of somebody putting their foot down. I learned that with my mother, making sure the last time she put her hands on one of us really was the last time. At least until I heard her smack Peeta in the Justice Building, where it had taken all my will not to kick the door down and remind her of our earlier 'conversation'.

It's possible I was already more than a little upset before Haymitch took a swipe at Katniss. More than anything I felt useless, thinking that I'd left them all in a position to go right back to the way things were before. I don't see Rye standing up to her. He doesn't need to worry about her picking on him; as he's grown bigger he's gotten angrier. Too much like me for his own good, but it'll likely be enough to keep her off his back.

But he won't stand between her and Peeta, and Peeta's too much like our father for _his_ own good. He won't fight back, though he's no weakling, even if he'll not likely match his brothers for size. Peeta and Father wouldn't know real anger if they ever felt it. I'm the only one who can stop her, and now I'm not there.

And I never will be again.

Clenching my fists, I march to the long row of tables piled with food, where Katniss is mixing up some kind of grain meal with nuts and berries, and sprinkling what looks like powdered chocolate on top.

She's dressed differently from me in pants and a long-sleeved tunic with no jacket, all in the same colour scheme she wore in the parade. Cinna seems to have created a whole theme out of her gold mockingjay pin, which stands out on the plain black front of her tunic. All down her back and around her legs is a pattern of silvery feathers, which shift to darker tones when she moves. The patterns form white-tipped wings on her arms. Her hair is in pigtails as opposed to the usual braid over her shoulder, making her look even younger.

She catches me admiring her outfit, gives me a shy little smile, and gathers her breakfast and skips away to the table.

There's a massive selection of foods, many of which I haven't seen before. I mix up a bigger bowl of what Katniss had, leaving out the chocolate, and grab a couple of slices of toast and two odd pieces of fuzzy fruit. The load is a bit awkward, and a little milk spills over the lip of the bowl as I make my way to the table, where Effie has successfully pushed Haymitch into nibbling the corner off a slice of toast.

It's quiet around the table while Katniss and I devour our bowls with gusto. For such a tiny thing, the kid can put away food in a big hurry. As soon as I'm done, I pour a cup of coffee. I catch a movement from Effie and pour a second cup, which she thanks me for in a murmur and places next to the cup Haymitch has already drained. He doesn't touch it, but the smell seems to bring him around a little. He takes a small bite of toast, chews with what seems a lot of effort, swallows and clears his throat.

"Okay," he announces," managing to sound energetic for all that he looks fit for burial, "as of right now, you two are the best of friends. You never leave each other’s sides; maybe you bicker like a brother and sister who see too much of each other, but you stand together, help each other out, and give hell to anybody who tries to make trouble with the other."

"And you, at least," he adds, jabbing a finger at me, "will definitely find trouble."

"Why?" I ask, annoyed. "I don't start fights. I finish them," I tell him, a little gloatingly.

He gives a little laugh, then grimaces, rubbing his purple jaw. "Don't worry about that. You'll find a couple in there more than happy to fight. It's against the rules, but you are allowed to defend yourself if you're attacked. The Careers will take one look at you and want to see what you're made of, and you're going to show them.

"Unarmed combat, basic weapons; you see them showing off, you show them up. One of them disarms an instructor, you make yours bleed. One of them floors an instructor, you send yours out on a stretcher."

I have to suppress a grimace, and Effie looks scandalised. Even if I'm capable of besting the instructors, which I doubt, I don't want to go around maiming them.

Haymitch seems to spot my hesitation. "Most of the instructors are Peacekeepers, and all of them come back year after year, ignore the kids who need the training the most, and help the Capitol's favourites intimidate them," he says angrily. "For the combat experts at least, the job isn't training. It's getting people's blood up, singling out the ones the Gamemakers will want to keep an eye on, and encouraging rivalries among the real competitors." I glance at Portia, who nods gravely.

Okay, them I can hurt. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Once you've shown what you can do, the Careers from One and Two will try to be friendly. Get you on their side, or at least show they're not afraid of you. Four could go either way; they're Careers, but more by default than anything else. The fishing industry breeds a lot of fit youngsters with a talent for hunting and useful tricks." I think of Finnick Odair, the boytoy from Four who'd never received any actual training like they do in One and Two, but turned out to be a natural killer, as well as a natural philanderer. "Ignore them, or be rude if you have to. This," he growls, jerking his chin at Katniss, "is your only partner for training."

When he continues, it's Katniss he's talking to. "You can throw a knife well enough," he says with grudging compliment. "Have you ever actually fought with one?"

"I've never been in a fight at all," she says with a shrug.

Haymitch blinks at her. "Then what do you call that little display on the train?" Portia and Cinna share a curious glance. Apparently they didn't get to hear the story.

Katniss' lip twitches and she cocks an eyebrow. "Not much of a fight. I was as unfair to the furniture as Bannock was to you."

I choke on my coffee, covering my mouth with a napkin to keep from spraying the table.

Haymitch seems to have spent all the humour he had for the incident. "I didn't ask if you'd been in a _fair_ fight," he snaps. "If you're planning to fight fair in the Hunger Games, you've already lost, sweetheart."

Katniss glares at him. "I've never fought with a knife," she snaps right back. She reaches over, tears off a chunk of the toast Effie's been trying to coax into Haymitch. "A kid was picking on my sister a while back. He thought nobody would do anything about him pushing around a little girl who looked like she didn't belong in the Seam, especially now... with our father gone. He was my age," she adds when Haymitch raises his eyebrows in question.

"And?"

She tries to look nonchalant, but it comes across as more smug than anyone her size has a right to be. "Nobody else has picked on her since then."

All the adults around the table seem both impressed and amused, and - in Effie's case - slightly appalled at what she no doubt considers to be shocking behaviour. After all, violence is only acceptable when it's officially sanctioned and televised for the entertainment of all.

Far from being flush with pride for stalking through the wilds, an unlikely predator among those natural born killers she shares a hunting ground with, Katniss was surprised and embarrassed when I told Haymitch how good she is with a bow. But bring up almost killing a grown man or turning the tables on a bully, and she's all but preening.

What a strange girl my new best friend is. What a strange girl my little brother is so infatuated with.

But then, I consider, they're all strange to me. I've never understood the fascination.

"Okay," Haymitch says slowly, "well you'll need to get in some practice with knives. There's no point to you messing around with axes or spears - maybe a short sword - but if you're quick enough and smart enough, a knife can be all you need. Get one of the instructors to practice with a variety of weapons; you stick with knives. And the bow," he adds. You need to be able to use it as a melee weapon, too. If anyone catches you off-guard at close range in the arena and you're holding a bow, they won't politely wait for you to put it away and get your knife out. You need to be ready to use whatever's in your hands against whatever's in theirs."

He doesn't mention that the odds of her having knives or a bow in the arena are slim to none - most smaller kids who brave the Cornucopia don't make it out alive, let alone well-armed - but if this has occurred to her, it doesn't show.

"There'll be a few different bows in the training gym," Haymitch continues. "Shoot with all of them; be sure you’re used to them for when you face the Gamemakers alone. Same with the knives. But don't let the others see how good you really are. Throw your game a little until it's just you and the Gamemakers."

Katniss screws up her face. "Why?" she demands furiously. "How come _he_ ," she jerks a thumb in my direction," gets to show off to his heart's content, but I have to be the useless little girl?"

"Because _he_ ," Haymitch snarls, mimicking her nasty tone, "is going to have a bullseye on his back already just for being as big as he is, so he needs to show what he can do, and he needs to do it well enough that even the Careers will be a little afraid of coming at him alone."

"There's not a thing some skinny little girl from the coal district can do to make the Careers afraid of you, but I never said anything about pretending to be useless. Middle of the pack is still better than half your competition, but if the Careers see what you're really capable of, you'll be a prime target. You need to pass under their radar, and come away from private training with as high a score as you can get. And that, sweetheart," he intones, "makes you unpredictable. A little talent will make the other small kids - and I don't think any of them are as small as you - a little wary of you, but it won't single you out for the Careers. A good training score will, but not knowing what you did to get it might be enough to make them think twice."

They glare at each other for a moment before Katniss finally gives a stiff nod of acceptance. "Fine. What about the other stations?"

"Visit each of them at least once. Pick up a new trick or two and brush up on what you already know. You especially," he says to me. "Combat skills are all well and good, but you need to be able to survive. Edible plants, traps and snares, camouflage. Learn what you can about each, and tackle the obstacle courses a couple of times a day. The Careers pay next to no attention to anything outside the combat stations," he tells Katniss, "and you want the instructors to know what you can do. If there's anything you can learn from them, learn it.

"Don't hold anything back on the obstacle courses or climbing stations either. It's something else that'll separate you from the other babies," he continues, "but if you can keep up with her," he adds for my benefit, "that's something else for the Careers to think about. What they can disregard in one case is food for thought in the other. If you're not fast or a good climber, you have three days to get good."

Katniss seems happy about not having to hold herself back on the assault course, and a little pleased at Haymitch's certainty of her supremacy - as if there can be any doubt, with me weighing as much as three of her and all the time she spends in the woods. My thoughts are coming back to what Haymitch said before. About the instructors whose job it is to act as agitators for the troublesome Tributes, while largely ignoring those who need their help the most. And three days? I knew that was how it went, but I'd never really stopped to think about how truly unfair it was.

It's one thing for me. I've got size and maybe a little skill on my side. Anything else I can learn in three days is a bonus. Possibly even more so for Katniss. Careers have training. She has experience; roaming the wild without a safety net, hunting, killing and feeding herself and her family. What happens to those who don't have an industry or need-driven pastime that prepares them for the impending massacre, and then only three days to learn how to kill and not be killed?

I drop my eyes, tuning out the tactical conversation and picking up one of the fuzzy pieces of fruit. I'm not quite sure where to start, but I don't want to look like an idiot by asking. Do I peel it, or just bite into it as it is?

Across from me, Portia taps lightly on a knife, not looking at me. I pick up the nearest knife and cut the fruit in half; it's soft, pale green and full of tiny brown seeds, and white in the centre. Portia's hand twitches again. I pick up a teaspoon, scoop out some of the insides, and take a tentative bite. It's delicious; sweet and tangy. Before digging in, I nudge Katniss, and she takes the other fruit.

"It's almost time," Effie pipes, bringing me back to the conversation. I glance up, and Haymitch is trying to swallow what's left of his toast, looking sicker by the second. "Most of the Tributes will be early on the first day; you might as well eat those on the way down. You don't want to be the last to arrive. You only get one chance to make a first impression, after all!"

I glance at Haymitch; his eyes are screwed shut, and he seems to be fighting the urge to throw up. Effie clearly wants to hurry us out before he blows, and the thought of what's waiting for us downstairs has my own stomach churning. If I have to be here for Haymitch getting sick, I may follow suit.

Portia and Cinna wish us luck, and we're off, eating what's left of the fruit as we go. We say nothing in the elevator, both of us too focused on eating and, at least in my case, terrified of what we're about to walk into. I sneak a peek at Katniss, and see that now that her anger has faded, all the colour has left her face. She looks even smaller than usual.

By the time the elevator reaches the sub-level where the training rooms are, we're finished eating, my hands are shaking with nothing to occupy them, and we're left looking around for somewhere to leave the spoons and empty skins. Katniss takes mine and dumps the lot in a trashcan, fancy spoons and all.

"I suppose everything's disposable to these people, anyway," I say with a shrug.

"And everybody," she adds in a murmur.

Despite Effie rushing us out, we are the last to arrive as she feared. Twenty-two disposable bodies are already waiting on us in the main section of an enormous gymnasium, but if we've made a bad first impression, it's on the instructors. All the Tributes are focused on a tall woman I assume is in charge.

We shuffle in quietly behind the others, as my shaking hands will do more to ruin any air of cockiness I'm supposed to be showing than our lateness might have done to our first impression. Katniss steps in front of me, grasps my hands and draws them around her. Her own arms are crossed over her chest, her tiny hands grasping mine.

The woman at the forefront speaks up then, and a few of the other Tributes look behind them, only then noticing that we've arrived. They take in the of my now-still hands in Katniss', her almost cradled against me like a baby. She may be overdoing it when it comes to not making herself stand out - every pair of eyes moves right over her and settles on me - but at least my hands aren't shaking. I realise that after the way Cinna and Portia arranged us in the parade, this is the second time I've been cast as little Katniss Everdeen's protector. The thought almost makes me laugh, and I carefully force my features into what I hope is an approximation of an arrogant smile.

The woman introduces herself as Atala, the chief instructor, and starts off by telling us that in approximately two weeks, twenty three of us will be on our way home in plain wooden boxes. It's her job, and the job of those accompanying her, to prepare us every way they can to help us not be among the twenty-three. I think of how Haymitch described their job and I want to walk up to her and knock her head off.

She lays out the rules of the gym. There are instructors at every station, each experts in their own disciplines. I can already tell she has little time for the survival stations, which are all off to the sides and get only the briefest of mentions from her. She focuses mainly on combat, informing us that all the melee weapons are blunted and that we are to train by ourselves or with instructors; not, under any circumstances, against each other.

The bigger Tributes are looking around, grinning at each other and glaring at the smaller ones. Haymitch was right; not a single one is smaller than Katniss, though few seem to be in better shape. There are a lot of bony limbs and sunken faces like those you'd expect to see around the Seam, and the few who might be better fed show little to no muscle.

The most obviously disadvantaged among the group is a girl around fifteen or so whose right leg ends before her ankle. She leans on a pair of crutches, sullenly ignoring Atala. One of the boys I noticed both in the Reaping footage and the parade leans towards her, whispering something.

He's from District Six, of a height with me and much broader; but softer, I think. There's something distinctly mean about him, and I don't doubt that whatever he's whispering to the crippled girl is something she doesn't want to hear. But despite his size, I somehow doubt he's as physical as the Careers. I could take him down. Happily.

The girl leans away, ignoring him until he reaches out to grab her, when she swipes at him with one of the crutches. She hits him in the knee, but he barely seems to notice, and lets her go, chuckling.

Atala witnesses the exchange and stops her speech. "What did I just say?" she demands.

The boy just glares at her. The girl - and even though I can only see the back of her head, I somehow know she's rolling her eyes - mutters sarcastically at her. "Oh, were you talking?"

This brings a few titters from the Careers, and Atala purses her lips in annoyance. "Dismissed," she hisses, and the group of Tributes disperses. One of the instructors approaches Katniss and I, pinning a white cloth square on my back with the number twelve on it. After examining Katniss' outfit for a moment, she decides to pin her number to the front rather than obscure the pattern on her back.

We eye the other Tributes for a moment, nearly all of them gravitating towards the weapons. The crippled girl hobbles off to the edible plants, the Careers pick their favourite tools and brandish them with confidence, trading what seem like friendly insults, while the boy from Six pushes through the crowd to claim a pair of axes with wide half-moon blades and most of the others finger the weapons delicately, as if waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

"Over here," Katniss says, and I follow her quietly. She leads me to the knot-tying station, run by a young man who seems surprised to see us at first, before he gets enthusiastic once Katniss reveals her skill with snares. She quickly masters a trick of a rope trap that will pull a Tribute right off his feet and into the air, and has moved onto a miniaturised version of some kind of elaborate and lethal-looking spring trap by the time I've managed the first enough times to be sure.

From there we head over to one of the climbing areas, which features a high wall and couple of tall, haphazard wooden structures I think are supposed to represent trees. They're higher than the wall, and the higher up you go, the thinner the supports get, and I don't trust that the mattresses spread out around them would do much to break a fall from the top.

I opt instead to try the wall, which at least has a harness with an attached rope should I slip. Katniss follows me at first, but seems to tire of my pace and slithers out ahead of me, calling out instructions on which way to go next. At one point I'm blindly fumbling around a section of wall that juts out, obscuring the view above and making it all the more awkward to grasp the few handholds I can see with my sweaty fingers. Katniss goes over the obstruction with her feet dangling in the air, confidently pulling herself up with only her hands. With her instruction, I eventually manage to do the same, but even with the rope, hanging fifty feet above ground by my fingertips is very nearly enough to send me scurrying back down.

"This isn't so bad," I mutter breathlessly once I'm level with her. She laughs and nods at one of the 'trees'. I shake my head. "Absolutely not."

She glances at me, grinning. "Probably no point anyway," she allows. "In here is one thing, but in the arena? I'd pity the tree that had to support your weight."

I snort in response, then cry out in horror when she leaps off the wall, her detached rope and harness dangling uselessly behind her. Turning in mid-air, she spreads her wing-adorned arms, and I can only stare, terrified, waiting for her to crash down to the mattresses below. Instead she sails further through the air than I would have thought possible, one hand closing easily around the thin stalk of the 'tree'. She spins herself around it and is facing me again, both feet and her other hand somehow finding purchase on the other branches.

I cringe away, my entire body hugging the wall, breathing hard. "You're out of your mind," I gasp.

She laughs again. I didn't think this girl was capable of sounding so giddy. "You're sure you don't want to try?" she asks tauntingly, dropping her feet, dangling with only one hand gripping the branch.

In response I turn back to the wall and make my slow way back down. Naturally, she's waiting for me when I get there. I didn't hear a thump, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear she simply jumped the whole way. She's talking animatedly with the instructor. "Well, who knows if I'll get the chance again. With my luck, they'll drop us into a desert," she says with forced cheer.

The instructor seems eager to reassure her. "I'm sure there'll be something worth your time in there," he says soothingly. "Empty arenas tend not to be very entertaining, after all."

There's something off about his tone. Maybe it's just the bizarre accent - apart from the Gamemakers watching from a balcony overlooking the combat stations, he's one of only two in the room who looks to be truly Capitol, and Atala certainly didn't speak like one of them - but I can't tell if he's truly trying to put her at ease, or taunting her. Apparently, Katniss doesn't either. She turns away from him and marches over to me, watching with some amusement as I struggle to get my wobbly legs out of the harness. "Most of them have given up on the combat stations for now. Want to try out some weapons?"

I turn and see that she's right. Apart from the Careers, only four Tributes are still working on combat. I recognise the pair from Three; a tall, wiry girl with a shock of red hair, stumbling as she uses a spear shaft to block a sword blow from an instructor who looks like she could juggle her; a boy around Katniss' age who makes the smarter move of just not being there when his instructor attacks; the boy from Six, unarmed like the instructor he tries and fails to bring down by main force; and the boy from Seven, who actually bests his instructor, getting inside his defence and clobbering him in the head with an elbow before slipping around him and putting an axe between his shoulder blades. Blunt or not, it looks painful.

The rest have scattered among the survival stations, with a pair I don't recognise muttering to each other as they approach the climbing station, eyeing Katniss and the obstacles in turn. She smirks at them, turns on her heel and struts towards away, making an instant beeline to where the ranged weapons are.

"Careful," I caution, fighting a smirk of my own. "I'm supposed to be the cocky one here."

"Well, here's your chance." She jerks her head towards the one unoccupied instructor next to the weapons, and then to my surprise, she passes the bows and picks up a belt of throwing knives, securing it around her waist and taking up position at a nearby target.

I pick up a few different weapons one by one, testing the weight and trying to find one that feels a bit more comfortable. None of them really do, but I can't just spend the next three days wrestling barehand. In the end I settle on a single axe from the pair the boy from Six had earlier on, with a half-moon blade and a handle about the length of my arm.

My instructor, a squat little man with a shaven head, doesn't bother introducing himself, just points to a painted square on the floor. No sooner have I stepped inside, he charges at me with a raised sword. I panic, raising the axe handle to block his blow, but my stance is so unsteady that the flat of my own blade hits me in the face, then I'm on my back, black spots in front of my eyes and my mouth filling with blood.

The instructor shakes his head, disgusted. "Get up," he growls, "or stop wasting my time."

I spit a font of blood on the mat and clamber to my feet, snarling. This time I actually manage to block two blows, then the third hits me in the arm and my feet are kicked out from under me. Before I can move an inch, the sword is at my throat.

Knocking the blade away, I surge to my feet and shove a shoulder into his chest. He gives a small grunt, then I'm spun around and flung forward, stumbling.

"They should have left you in the mines. Maybe you'd be more at home with a pickaxe," the instructor suggests, voice full of contempt. "Or are you as lousy a miner as you are a fighter?"

One area over, the boy from District 4 has stopped his training and taken time out to watch me, laughing. On the opposite side of me, Katniss idly twirls a knife between her fingers as she watches too. She looks expectant, and a little disappointed. I know she's waiting for something like the explosion on the train with Haymitch, and I can feel it building.

I could just let it happen. In the little time since we arrived, Haymitch's observations of the instructors and their motives have been more than confirmed. In this room, and in particular with these people, letting go would not only look good; it would feel good. The train wasn't the first time.

Nor was it the first time I was barely stopped short of killing another person.

Taking a deep breath to force the rage down, I make as if to charge a second time. The instructor braces for the impact, then blinks in surprise when I lightly toss the axe in his direction. Confused, reacting on instinct, he straightens ever so slightly, throwing up a hand to pluck the weapon out of the air.

I kick him between the legs as hard as I can.

Laughter erupts from the Gamemakers on the balcony, and the instructor crumples the floor, doubled over and writhing in agony as a breathless whine escapes him. I catch a laugh from Katniss too, and I can't help but smirk as I watch him, tears streaming down his face as he tries to protect what he's already lost.

I enjoy the show until a pair of his fellow instructors come and haul him off. He groans a stream of feeble obscenities as they throw his arms over their shoulders and carry him out the doors.

The instant he's gone, a woman appears and scoops up the axe and sword, replacing them on the racks. She pulls a pair of smaller axes, tossing them to me one by one.

"I think you just ended my brother's chances of ever having children," she announces cheerfully. I eye her up, taking in features fairly similar to the man who was just carried away. "For that, I can show you a thing or two."

The remaining hours until lunch are the most exhausting of my life. She insists I try out a few different weapons, but in the end we come back to the twin axes, which my trainer, who eventually introduces herself as Servilia, tells me are known as tomohawks.

I practice attack and defence against a variety of weapons, losing track of time as my hands blister and I can feel a mass of bruises forming all over my body. Servilia isn't as cruel as her brother, but she certainly isn't gentle. No doubt I'm learning a thing or two; the question is, will I be able to move well enough to use any of it in the arena?

By the time the buzzer sounds for lunch I can barely lift my arms, but Servilia gives me a small smile and a nod before replacing her weapons and following the stream of people headed towards the cafeteria.

I turn to find Katniss removing her knife-belt and handing it to her instructor, who's eyeing her up curiously. I examine her work; she's been aiming at a set of moving targets, and as Haymitch instructed, there are only what looks like a couple of really good shots. It takes me a moment to see what the instructor is seeing. There may only be a handful of bullseyes, but her 'misses' are clustered too closely to be anything but deliberate. There isn't a stray blade to be seen anywhere. Downplaying her skills even a little seems to be a stretch.

I grab my jacket, which had me sweating buckets two minutes into Servilia's lessons, and we make our way to the cafeteria, loading up our trays at random. Before we can find somewhere to sit, I'm tapped on the shoulder and turn to find the pair from Two. "Want to join us?" the girl asks, nodding towards where the other Careers are holding court. The boy from Seven, despite not looking like much, seems to have impressed them enough to warrant an invite, while his crippled partner has a table to herself in the far corner of the room.

"Pass," I mutter, and turn my back on them, following Katniss to an empty table.

"Looks like Haymitch was right," she whispers as soon as we've taken our seats. "They don't seem very happy with being turned down."

I follow her gaze to the Career's table. All eyes are on me while the girl from Two talks, and there's a belt of cruel laughter at some comment from her partner.

I ignore them. "How was the knife throwing?"

"Boring. My arm hurts, and I don't even have anything to show for it."

That, I realise, might be the hardest part of this for her, at least until we get to the actual arena. Katniss is certainly no stranger to hard work, but she's used to all her efforts being rewarded.

I light on Haymitch's instruction from this morning. "You should switch to close combat when we go back in," I suggest.

She squirms uncomfortably. "I don't think any of them will have time for me," she says, a hint of bitterness in her voice as she shoots an evil look to the second floor, where the instructors have an area to themselves. Above them still are the Gamemakers, their space apparently having a balcony on either side, one overlooking the cafeteria while the other looks into the gym. They seem to be eating rather than drinking for a change, but their antics almost drowning out the raucous Careers, even though the Careers are much closer.

Grimacing, I shift back to the instructors. "Servilia isn't so bad," I offer.

"With you. You actually look like you belong here, and I didn't cripple her brother."

"Don't sell yourself short. I've seen what you can do, and when the Gamemakers see, maybe -"

"What?" she growls, shoving her tray aside. "Maybe they'll be like you and Haymitch and all the rest? Maybe they'll feel sorry for me and lie to me so I can feel a little better about dying. Maybe they'll give me a nice seven or even an eight, something that might actually make a difference if I was a few years older. If I was tall and strong and pretty, and really capable of having _anything_ to bring to their Games besides my corpse!"

Well, if I'd had any illusions of her hoping to survive...

"It doesn't matter how tall you are, or how strong. And pretty only counts if you plan on looking nice at your funeral." She rolls her eyes and jumps up out of her seat. I grab her by the arm and sit her back down. "I could _juggle_ half the kids in this room," I hiss, "if I were fast enough to catch even one of them besides the cripple. If I could follow them when they run up trees like they were born in them. If I could take a single step after them before I took an arrow through the eye."

She blinks at me, then scowls, disgusted. "Nice. You really think I'd -"

"You damn well better!" I roar, and wince as a dead silence descends over the room. I drop my voice to a whisper, struggling for calm. "There's only one thing that can stop you from being able to take down me or anyone else in here, and that's hesitating. You show _them_ ," I tell her, pointing a finger at the staring Gamemakers, "what you're capable of and they'll make sure you have what you need for the Games. Their whole job is to put on a show, and if you prove you can help them do that, they'll love you."

"I hate them," she growls, gripping a knife and glaring at them as if she'd like nothing more than to climb up to the balcony and slaughter the whole rotten lot.

"Then hate them. But use them. It's their Games, but they're not the ones playing. They're not the ones risking everything, but they can still help you. If they think you have the talent... and the nerve to use it."

"The nerve to murder a bunch of people?" Her face is completely bloodless. It's not dying that scares her. It's the killing.

"You just treat it like another day in the woods. Forget murder, forget that word even exists. You're going hunting. That's all."

She shakes her head. "It's not the same. They're armed. They think!"

"And they'll kill you if you give them the chance. So don't. You're the best hunter in the district. You must have run into plenty of things in those woods that are stronger than you, faster than you. I'd bet a lot of them are prettier, too," I add, and she gives a little hiccup of surprised laughter. "How do you stop them from killing you?"

She takes a deep breath. "I kill them first."

"You see? It is the same. It's just hunting, and nobody can beat you when you're hunting."

She inhales deeply again, gives a stiff little nod, and drops her eyes to her lunch, picking up her fork.

Our audience soon gives up on us, and the noise level in the cafeteria picks up while Katniss and I pass the rest of the meal in silence. When we head back into the gym, I nudge Katniss in Servilia's direction and single out another instructor who was teaching unarmed combat before lunch. I cut off the boy from Four before he can get there, and smirk at him when he glares, purple-faced.

I take a short glance in Katniss' direction to see that Servilia has followed her to the bows, trading off with the instructor who was manning the ranged weapons before lunch. Katniss briefly holds out both of her arms, clasping two arrows between her fingers, the ends of the shafts against her chest, apparently comparing the lengths.

Satisfied that Servilia seems to be giving her a chance, I take up position in front of my own instructor, who apparently doesn't put much stock in pleasantries, attacking immediately. Still, what follows is more or less familiar. He's much stronger than me, and has a kick that could snap me in half if I let him use it. I don't. We spend the next hour or so grappling and tossing each other about, him trying to distance himself, me keeping the fight as close as possible, not giving him the chance to fight on his terms.

I give as good as I get until I have nothing left to give. I don't know if anyone could really declare a winner, but my instructor is breathing as hard as me when we're done. He gives me a little nod and walks away, grabbing a bottle of water and draining it. I do the same and move to the ranged weapons on shaky legs. On the way I see that Katniss has left the target range but is still holding a bow. Servilia has stuck with her, allowing the first instructor to go back to the range, and seems to be walking her through using it to block a variety of weapons. Though she's no longer shooting, a full quiver hangs over her shoulder.

"The limbs are wood and fibreglass," Servilia says, "so they might take a hit or two if you're careful, but deflecting a blow is a lot safer than trying to block it outright. That riser is made of titanium. It'll stop a bullet, but you'll never see a weapon like that in the arena."

I tune them out and focus on my own work. Javelin throwing is a nice break after the last hour, even if I'm not very good at it. Eventually I give up and turn back to racks, spotting a sharpened set of tomohawks.

It takes a lot of practice before my throws are not only landing, but sticking. Even so, after all the earlier practice using the tomohawks, they're much more comfortable than the javelins, which have been taken up by the boys from One and Two. They took up position on either side of me as soon as I got here, silently showing off with the weapon I handled so clumsily.

One is a little taller than me, Two a little shorter, both extremely aware of what impressive physical specimens they make. Try as I might to ignore them, they don't give up. Every time an axe blade lands on a target, it's immediately followed by a pair of spears on either side.

There are only two tomohawks compared to a whole rack loaded with javelins, and every time I have to walk onto the range to collect, I can't help but glance over my shoulders. Neither boy ever says a word, but just watch me, grinning maniacally. Two twirls a javelin in one hand and nods towards the mannequin.

It happens the first time I let my guard down. I stalk to the target, studiously ignoring them both. A startled cry rings out the moment I place a hand on the first axe-handle, and I dive to the floor. The sound of the impact has me cringing, and what follows next is pure chaos. I don't see what happens to the second spear, but amid all the shouting I'm dimly aware that it never hits the mannequin.

Both boys have been shoved roughly against the weapon rack by the time I catch my breath and get back to my feet. Servilia and Attala hold them there none too gently, while the instructor manning the station walks down among the targets. He spares me only a cursory glance to see I'm not injured and keeps going. When he returns he's holding the second javelin in one hand, and an arrow in the other.

All eyes are on the commotion with the two boys, nobody noticing when the instructor approaches Katniss. He brushes by without a word, and she replaces the one spent missile in her quiver. I can only stare, trying to work out how she could possibly have shot that tiny spear out of the air. I'm briefly worried about what Haymitch will have to say about this little display, but as I look around I realise that only the instructor, and, I imagine, Servilia, even realise what just happened. The Gamemakers, the other Tributes, they're all watching me and the Career boys.

Attala makes a show of dressing One and Two down, and they smile and nod through the whole thing, because even if she could really do anything to them, she wouldn't. Swallowing reflexively, I turn and pluck my tomahawks from the target. I notice the first javelin, still hanging there, right next to where my head would have been. A deliberate miss. Maybe it would have scratched me if not for Katniss' warning cry. I don't want to think about what would have happened to the second one if she hadn't shot it.

Attala turns her back on One and Two, and One gives me a wave and a cheerful "See you in the morning!" before they walk away, laughing. Even though there must still be at least an hour of training time left, they head for the doors, and the other Careers soon follow suit. Well, it's not like they really need the training. They've accomplished all they wanted to do today, sizing up the competition and showing how tough and untouchable they are.

My lunch threatens to come back up as I watch them leave, laughing and jostling each other like the kids back home after a schoolyard game of _Blitz_.

"You okay?"

I start, my heart still pounding. Katniss looks sympathetic. I almost laugh at how quickly our roles have reversed. Now she's the one protecting me.

I twirl the axes on my hands with a casualness I don't feel. "Fine," I manage, my voice quivering only a little. I spin and toss the axes, one after another at different targets, picturing One and Two, burying the blades right in the middle of their sneering faces.

Suddenly I really do feel much better. "I'm starving," I announce, my heart and voice much steadier. "Ready to go?"

She turns her head, and I follow her eyes to the Gamemakers. A few have gone back to their steady stream of food and drink - mostly drink - but those still watching are all watching me. "Almost," she says, and grins.

With lightning speed, she draws and fires seven times in succession. Each arrow flies all the way down range, further than I can clearly make out, where a lone mannequin stands right up against the wall.

"I could eat," she allows, and hands the bow and quiver to Servilia, who takes them dumbly, staring down the range. The Gamemakers are staring too, some of them holding up some kind of binoculars and pointing excitedly.

The target is too far away, the arrows too thin as I look dead on down the range. I glance at Katniss, and she just stands there, smugly watching the Gamemakers.

I walk down the target range, trying to see what the Gamemakers can see. As I get closer, I spot each arrow sticking out of the target's face, but I've almost pulled up alongside it before I can see the full effect of the brightly smiling face looking out at me, two arrows for eyes and the rest forming a wide, steely grin.

I try to fight the laughter as I walk back up the range, but the barrage of kids running down to check the targets has me chuckling, and when I pull up next to Katniss, she gives a little bow in the direction of the Gamemakers before turning on her heel and strutting out of the gym, and I just can't hold it back any longer. I'm doubling over with laughter as I follow her back to the elevator.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Bannock_ **

Peeling off my sweat-soaked training outfit, I take another lightning-quick shower before throwing on the least ridiculous outfit in my closet, which Portia presumably didn't have a hand in filling. It doesn't really matter, as I'll hardly be joining the garish Capitolites for a night on the town between now and the Games. Apart from my training clothes, the only thing I'm likely to be wearing between now and then is my interview suit, and at this point I think I can trust Portia not to make me look a complete idiot.

The big lunch I had is all but forgotten in the wake of the arduous afternoon session, and my stomach growls loudly all the way to the dining room where, thankfully, dinner is waiting to be served, Katniss having somehow beaten me here.

Portia and Cinna are again in attendance, and Haymitch is looking slightly less like death warmed over than he did this morning. He must have seen a doctor, because the visible evidence of our fight yesterday has completely faded, except when he speaks.

"Today went well, then?" he inquires, his jaw twitching oddly with the movement, all consonants softened somehow. "I had to shake off the mentors from One and Two to get here. The pair from One both want an alliance, and Enobaria suggested you run like hell when the gong sounds or you'll be the first to die." He grins. "That's high praise from Enobaria, and she only seems to mentor when there's a Tribute dangerous enough or crazy enough to work with her. What did you do to make yourself so popular?"

I grimace at the thought of Enobaria, the twisted Victor whose Games are the first I clearly remember, mostly because of how she won. When the Career alliance she was a part of fell apart, her parting gesture with her District partner was to peck him on the cheek, and tear his throat out with her teeth. Apparently the taste of blood agreed with her, because she decided to abandon her weapons and killed two more Tributes in the same way, including her final opponent; an already thoroughly beaten boy from District Five who had survived as long as he had through sheer luck. Her signature move had both sickened and delighted the Capitol viewers, and she responded by having her teeth filed down to fangs and inlaid with gold, leaving her with a grin that is the stuff of nightmares.

I tell Haymitch about Servilia and her brother, and the boys shadowing me at the target range. When I get to the spear-throwing incident, Katniss kicks me under the table, and I leave out her shooting the second spear out of the air, and her additional display once the Careers had left. Her eyes are on her food, and she hasn't said a word since we left the gym, but after Haymitch's admonition this morning, I assume she doesn't want him knowing she went against him.

Neither Haymitch nor Effie - whose new colour scheme of random vibrant greens and diamond patterns seems to be some bizarre attempt to emulate both the parade costumes worn by myself and Katniss and my own training uniform - seem to notice, but Portia and Cinna share a curious glance, and whatever Cinna is picturing seems to amuse him no end.

"I'd sooner go it alone than team up with any of those thugs." I say it more to cover the sudden pause than anything else, but the words are certainly true. It's not likely I'll find any allies in the arena; and if I do, they certainly won't be Careers. "And I don't know which of the pair from Two Enobaria is working with, but either way she's picked a loser," I add, catching even myself off-guard with the venom in my voice.

Haymitch blinks and sits back, looking me over as if seeing me for the first time. I know what he's seeing, and it doesn't scare me nearly as much as it probably should. The idea has been brewing in my head since the first spear flew past my head, and took to boiling as I watched the Careers strutting out of the gym like they owned the place, delighting in intimidating the rest of us.

The anger has always been there. Tightly controlled; a chained monster waiting to break free. Twice it's made the attempt; the last time my mother went after Peeta, and two days ago with Haymitch.

Now, for the first time, it's not some imaginary monster that wants to break the chains. It's me. _I_ hate the Career Tributes and everything they stand for. _I_ want to find Servilia's loathsome brother and finish what I started. The kick was a half measure, if that. _I_ want his throat. _I_ want to march into the gym tomorrow, pick up the twin axes and hurl them right over the balcony at the first Gamemakers I see.

I want to spill every last drop of blood they have.

"Well, that's good, I suppose," Haymitch says, considering. "But don't rule out allies altogether. I can understand not wanting any Careers at your back, and you'd be the first they turn on when they've thinned the herd, but they aren't the only candidates, and everyone's chances can be improved with a little help."

Until the alliance inevitably crumbles. Not every team splits violently, though Career alliances always turn into a free-for-all, and even amicable splits go awry with a frequency that can't possibly be accidental. A few years ago two girls teamed up with surprising success, even more surprising as one of those girls was Johanna Mason, whom the pundits had already written off as a hopeless coward, before they saw what happened when she got her hands on an axe.

The pair worked together until it was only them and three others, then split their remaining supplies, shook hands - both had a weapon in the other hand, just in case - and went their separate ways. Within a couple of hours, the others were all dead, and without missing a beat, the former allies did what was required of them, and tracked each other down for a quick, but brutal showdown.

Grimacing, I switch focus to the food. I don't want to talk about allies, especially when there's only one I'd be willing to consider right now and she'd probably be better off without me.

Haymitch seems to understand my silence, and I expect he'll switch to Katniss. Instead, the rest of the meal passes in silence until dessert. Katniss doesn't seem to have any problem being ignored, but I catch Cinna frowning in Haymitch's direction more than once.

I'm on my second helping of dessert and Haymitch, surprisingly, is only on his second glass of wine when he speaks again.

"Okay, I'll tell Sparkly and Shiny it's a firm no to an alliance. They'll be chatting up potential sponsors well into the night, and if I catch them tonight their Tributes will have gotten the message by the time you're in the gym tomorrow. That'll make things worse in training," he warns, "but it'll give you a chance to show what you're capable of."

And here I thought I already had. I open my mouth to say as much, but Haymitch anticipates my protest. "A cheap shot against an instructor is one thing, and I wish I'd been there to see it, but it's the other Tributes who are going into the arena with you. They'll keep pushing; it's what they're good at. So, when they give you a chance to make a point, you do it."

"What about the instructors?" I ask. "They may not care about a few bullies throwing their weight around, but they'll step in on a real fight quickly enough."

"Like they did today?" Portia asks, one eyebrow disappearing under her silver fringe. "They weren't very quick today; if those spears had actually been aimed at you, you'd be dead."

"Which has actually happened," Haymitch adds. "Last time was about fifteen years ago, I think, but Tributes have been killed in training, and their District Peacekeepers had to rush through a second Reaping to get a replacement."

I've never heard anything about that. "What happens to the Tributes who do the killing?"

"They become hot favourites to win, but I'm not suggesting you actually need to kill anyone. In fact, better if you don't," he says, grinning wickedly. "I've seen some badly messed up Tributes sent into that arena. If you can cause the kind of damage to a Career that upsets the balance of power, that won't just make you popular with sponsors once word gets out. It'll affect their alliances. That can be better than any parachute that lands at your feet.

"Okay, now the grown-ups need to talk, and tomorrow's going to be another very long day. Go on, get as much sleep as you can, while you can."

Katniss and I push our seats back and leave. As soon as we're out of earshot, I ask her. "Why didn't you say anything about your shooting?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Well, I assumed you kicked me for a reason."

She's silent for a moment. "Because you were right," she finally says. "It's the Gamemakers I need on my side. I can't count on Haymitch. Even if he stays sober, he can only choose one of us. And he has."

I don't know how to respond to that, and she doesn't give me a chance to, breaking off in the direction of her room without another word.

My second night in the Training Center doesn't pass nearly as peacefully as the first. The nightmares I've been waiting on hit full force, and I wake up screaming more than once. The last time, an Avox boy pokes his head inside. I wave him away with a brusque, "I'm fine," though I'm anything but, and knowing there's some creepy tongueless kid standing outside my room all night isn't likely to help me sleep.

Haymitch's talk of alliances seems to have provided the fuel for my nightmares, all variations on the same theme. Katniss and I impaled on twin spears. My tomahawks crushing her tiny chest. An arrow in my eye; my hands on her throat. A tiny corpse being lifted out of the arena, beaten beyond all recognition but for the braid over her shoulder.

After starting awake for the third time I give up on sleep and throw on fresh training clothes, identical to the outfit they'd taken the place of by the time I returned from dinner.

I take the elevator to the ground floor. There isn't really anything down here for me, and the guards at every door aren't likely to let me go outside for a little fresh air. With nothing else to do, I just pace all around the floor, past all the closed restaurants and stores, and the one open bar that seems to be for the Capitol citizens and mentors.

I doubt I'd be allowed in, but I do stop and watch them for a while. The mentors I recognise are mostly from the Career districts, though I spot Chaff, a friend of Haymitch's often seen alongside him, propping up the bar and singing to nobody in particular.

To the others, it looks like all business. Cashmere, a popular woman from One who is either the Sparkly or Shiny Haymitch was referring to, stands talking animatedly with a man in a purple suit and black, gold-streaked hair. She has no drink of her own, but takes occasional sips from his, and stands close enough that one barely covered breast is in constant contact with him. Elsewhere, no less a person than Finnick Odair is entertaining a flock of brightly-coloured women, all jostling each other for position.

It really is an all-star event. Chaff is the only male Victor from District Eleven but it doesn't look like he is going to be of much use to his tribute in his current state. There are no less than four former Victors from District Two and at least as many from One scattered among the crowd. It seems that some of them just have a free licence to party in the Capitol every year. I imagine that they're taking advantage of this time to drum up sponsorship for their District. It's yet another benefit of being a Career. The other Districts would count themselves lucky to boast three living Victors, half can barely scrape together a mentor for each of their tributes and Twelve has only Haymitch to do the work of two mentors. They don't have the time or the star power to secure advance sponsorship for their tributes so the Careers have a head start.

"Can't sleep?"

I blink at Cinna, who seems to have materialised out of thin air right next to me. "Not for lack of trying. And I certainly can't blame the bed."

"Well, the Peacekeepers might decide to move you out of here if you hang around much longer." I follow his gaze to the pair at the entrance to the bar, one of whom is watching me and speaking into a radio.

"They'll have standing orders to be gentle, of course, but gentle is relative. And like Haymitch said, they send people into the arena in varying states of health. If you can stand, you're fit to go in." There's no emotion in his face or his oddly unaccented voice, but I can't help but be a little unsettled by the way he looks the Peacekeepers dead in the eyes.

"Is there anywhere around here they don't follow?"

"A couple of places." He loops an arm in mine and leads me to the elevators. The Peacekeepers watch us, exchanging some whispers and a laugh, but we ignore them. We take it all the way to the top, where he leads me to a flight of stairs. At the top, a dome-shaped room leads out onto a rooftop garden. A gust of icy breeze hits and I shiver.

"They don't let us approach the doors, but they're okay with letting us up on the roof?" I ask. "I think anyone desperate enough not to go into the arena would leave this way as quickly as trying to make a break for it into the street."

"You'd get further if you made for the street," Cinna tells me. "And if it's suicide you're attempting, going for a Peacekeeper's gun or cutting your wrists with a dinner knife would be more effective." He leads me to the edge and reaches out, rapping his knuckles against what I think is empty air, recoiling at the sudden crackle of electricity. A forcefield.

He releases my arm and takes a seat on a patch of grass. "What's on your mind?"

"Haymitch," I mutter, dropping down beside him.

He chuckles. "Well, that explains not being able to sleep. Though he does seem to be making an effort," he admits with a frown.

"For me, you mean."

His glance is apologetic. "It's not his fault, any more than it's yours. The system is adversarial for a reason."

It's the first time I've ever heard anyone in the Capitol offer even the slightest criticism of the Hunger Games. I'm sure it happens on occasion - they can't all be monsters - but the tightly controlled Capitol broadcasts would never let us hear any such criticism in the Districts.

I look Cinna over carefully. Portia doesn't seem as flamboyant as the average Capitolite, and her Capitol accent is far less pronounced. Cinna, by comparison, has no trace of the Capitol in his accent or inflection. His sense of dress is similarly muted. Then there's taking me to the roof to talk. I'm sure there are cameras and microphones up here too, but I wonder how much they can hear over the noise of the constant wind this high up.

I drop my voice a little. "You're not from the Capitol." It's not a question, though I don't understand how anyone but a Capitol citizen could be living here, working as part of the Games. The thought of him being District doesn't exactly warm me to him. If anything, I want to grab him and demand an explanation for being involved in all this.

"Not originally." If he detects any hostility from my tone, he doesn't acknowledge it. "I was brought here from District One when I was fifteen. One is probably the most closely watched of the Districts, for all that we're the least threatening from any angle.

"District One is close by. You get outside of the Rockies, you can walk there in a day. We get a lot of artists, architects and fashion designers coming and going. The education system there is much like the other Districts. It all revolves around our industry. And because the Capitol has such a love of pretty things, they're always on the lookout for someone who shows a particular talent for making them."

"And when they find someone, they just bring you here and make you a Capitol citizen?" I've never heard a hint of any of this.

"Not exactly. Usually someone would just arrange for you to have a particular job in an area they control. I was discovered by the patroness of my school, Tertulla Ivory. She had the money and influence to take me out of the District, even though I should have had three years of Reapings left.

"I'm not technically a Capitol citizen. But I'm not District, either. I'm Tertulla's apprentice, though she's never worked the Games herself. Portia's partner was unavailable at the last minute, and she asked for me to take his place. They were meant to be working for District One, but Cashmere and Gloss complained about having an untested apprentice foisted on their Tributes. They didn't want me embarrassing them, so Tertulla moved us to Twelve." He grins. "Cashmere and Gloss got the pair who were supposed to be taking Twelve."

Bad news for Sparkly and Shiny. Twelve always gets the duds. "Too bad for them, but not exactly great for you, getting stuck with Twelve. Sorry about that."

He smiles. "Not to worry. There's more freedom in working with a district nobody expects much from, and it's a chance to give an edge to someone who needs it. Just don't tell Haymitch. He thinks the change was made before I signed on, not because I signed on."

Well, Katniss could certainly use an edge and make use of it. Her shooting this afternoon seems to have won over the Gamemakers, even if it can't help with Haymitch. Now she needs to impress the sponsors, which is where Cinna can help. It's one thing she doesn't need to be taller, stronger or older for. Cinna's right. They do so love their pretty things.

"I think Haymitch is more worried about your plans to set her on fire," I mutter, and he laughs.

"Well, I don't think we'll be going down that road. It seems our little Mockingjay has created her own theme."

He seems to genuinely want to help her, but I'm still trying to make sense of it in my head. "Doesn't it bother you?" I challenge. "Even backing the underdog, you're District, but you're working for them. If you'd ever been reaped, odds are some ready-made volunteer would have taken your place."

"True, and One has it much easier than most. We're the favoured pets, even if we're not quite as trusted as Two. But refusal isn't really an option. If someone like Tertulla sees something she wants, she has the power to take it. Half the stylists in the Games work for her fashion label. That's how she could switch us to Twelve so easily. The pair who'd been assigned here were hers.

"I've only heard of one person turning down a Capitol apprenticeship. She was engaged, and the 'offer' was for her and her only. The engagement ended rather suddenly."

I don't ask how. And I think I now know how they keep someone like Cinna under control.

"You still have family in One?"

"A brother and a sister. My mother took ill when I was young. It happened fairly quickly. I got a letter of condolence about my father last year from the Mayor."

And here I am standing in self-righteous judgement of him like a complete idiot, while his remaining family are essentially hostages he'll never get to see again.

"That can't be easy," I say by way of apology, if a lame one. "How do you deal with that?"

Another small smile. "I put all my emotions into my work."

He's quiet after that, and we just sit silently. He watches the city below. I watch him, thinking of the arm looped in mine as he led me up here. Was that just a show to stop the Peacekeepers from following, or something else?

Back home, I know of only two other boys like me, and there's little point comparing either of them to Cinna. Tobias is somewhat attractive, but not beautiful, and large and loud where Cinna is spare and quiet. The other, a skinny Seam boy recently moved on to the mines, taciturn and always scowling.

No, there's nothing of either boy in Cinna, and nor is he much like anyone I've ever met or thought to meet, but I can't help looking at him. If I were to win the Games, I could have my pick of lovers, but I doubt that even then they'd be much like Cinna.

I think of the brightly coloured flock of women surrounding Finnick Odair downstairs. The men in the Capitol are little different, and it would be Capitol men throwing themselves at me, I realise with disgust. About the only thing that would really improve is that I wouldn't have to hide. The Capitol don't care who anyone lies with, and if I were some ludicrously rich Victor, I wouldn't have to worry about being disinherited. The bakery would pass to Rye, but it wouldn't matter. I'd be set for life.

Cinna pulls out a pocket watch, interrupting my imaginings. "You still have a couple of hours to get some sleep, and I'd recommend trying. Today will be difficult enough without your response to the Careers attacks being to yawn at them. Oh, and I wouldn't expect Haymitch to be at breakfast."

Because he was on his way to talk to Sparkly and Shiny. "Drunk?" I guess.

"Not terribly; Effie spent the night managing him as well as she could, but he was only just gone up to bed when I ran into you. I'm fairly exhausted myself, but once I'm up I'll make sure he's still alive and doing his job."

"Thanks."

"Of course. We're all District here, one way or another. Even Portia and poor Effie will be lumped in with the coal District. Practically lepers until the Games are over."

"Poor Effie, indeed," I mutter, though I'm privately grateful for Effie Trinket and her apparent determination to keep Haymitch healthy, sober and working. Between her and the stylists, it might actually work.

We part ways at the bottom of the stairs and I head back to my room. I collapse onto the bed fully clothed, and though my sleep is no less peaceful than before, I don't wake up until a gentle rapping on the door brings me around. It's the Avox boy, dark circles around his eyes. I glance at the clock; I'm late for breakfast.

I give a little nod to the boy and he vanishes. From what Portia told me about the mute slaves, it certainly isn't their fault they make my skin crawl, but there are just too many reminders of the Capitol's ways around here. Ridiculous opulence and luxury, always tainted by the presence of those who've offended them in some way. Some of them are, or were, Capitol citizens. I wonder what one of them has to do to be branded a traitor, but I don't really want to know.

It's just Katniss and I at breakfast. Well, Cinna said he'd probably be sleeping in himself, and I imagine Effie must be exhausted from her babysitting duties. I load up a plate with eggs, bacon and toast and join her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the return of her usual braid in place of the pigtails.

"We never went near the assault course yesterday," she says by way of greeting. "We should spend the morning there if we can."

"Sounds good," I agree, "but maybe give breakfast a little time to settle first."

She nods, and that's the breakfast conversation over as we focus on our plates.

Back in the gym, we head over to the edible plants station. Like the climbing instructor, this one takes an immediate liking to Katniss and her clear knowledge of most of what she shows us, and admonishes us that while most of what we find at this station we'll find in the arena itself, there will be exceptions on both ends; things we see here that won't be in the arena, and things that will but aren't to be found here. "It's about knowing what to look for," she says, more to me than to Katniss. "There are some common warning signs for toxicity, but then there are the ones that try to pass themselves off as the edible ones. If you can't tell the difference, you're dead."

There's a crash behind us, and I turn to find the crippled girl from Seven sprawled on the ground and swearing loudly. I rush forward to help her up; she throws an arm over my shoulder and I haul her up to her feet, of which she suddenly has two. Two feet and no crutches. "What happened?" I ask her while we hobble to the table.

She pulls up her right pant leg, revealing a pale plastic foot awkwardly strapped to the stump of her severed leg. "Apparently, my crutches provided me with an _unfair advantage_ ," she announces, her voice dripping with sarcastic cheer. The last words come out in mockery of the Capitol accent, which has our instructor pursing her lips. "Of course, they're all about fairness here, and it occurred to someone when I hit that thing from Six with my crutch that they can't let me go in there already armed.

"So they took my crutches away and gave me this thing instead. And in the spirit of Capitol generosity, they gave me three whole days to learn to walk on it. Sounds fair, right?"

I have no idea how to respond to that, so once she's got her balance back I just let her go and extend a hand. "I'm Bannock."

She snorts and shakes my hand. "Resa." Looking beyond me to my partner, she grins. "Katniss, right? That was some pretty amazing shooting yesterday. I've never seen anything like it."

"Maybe it isn't a good idea to talk about that," I suggest.

Resa cocks an eyebrow. "Why? Everyone saw it."

" _They_ didn't," I tell her, pointing to the Careers who are - of course - monopolising the weapons stations. "And none of the little ones are likely to be telling them about it."

I turn back to my studies, but I notice Katniss looking at Resa with a worried expression. "What about your District partner?" she asks, and I realise I'd forgotten about him too. "He's latched on to the Careers."

"And just like the Careers, he's always trying to show off how tough he is, how above all this training crap," she says. "He left when they did. Idiot. If you split his head with an axe there'd be no difference at all. I didn't say anything, to him or Johanna."

She turns back to Katniss. "So where did you learn to do that?"

Katniss shoots a glance at the instructor, who quickly looks away, carefully unaware of the very dangerous conversation unfolding right in front of her. "Just something I picked up," she saws slowly.

Resa laughs. "Where can I pick up something like that?" She looks down and grimaces. "Then again, I'm not picky. I'd settle for a regular foot."

"You wanted to tackle the assault course," I remind Katniss. She nods and leads the way with a last curious glance at Resa. "Good luck," I tell her before I follow.

"I'm sure that'll make all the difference," she mutters at my back.

There are actually two assault courses, and I'm relieved when Katniss moves first to what looks like the more basic one, but even here I can't begin to keep up. I make it over and through most of the obstacles with no problems; there just isn't any keeping pace with my partner, who jogs across the thin walking beams, sprints up the sloped log frames I need the rope to climb, and dives head first through a pair of suspended rings, rolling and rising straight back up into a sprint. Trying to copy her gets me stuck in the second ring. By the time I've climbed awkwardly out she's halfway through her second circuit.

Katniss quickly tires of the 'baby' course, and I follow her nervously to the second, where a few other kids are trying their luck.

It's twice the size of the rest of the gym put together, and though it is much more difficult, I actually prefer this one. At least it seems more practical, littered as it is with rock walls and enough fake trees to create a miniature forest. The walking beams are simply cut trees over a pool of water.

Another pool is made into a stream we're meant to find a safe way to cross over slippery rocks and a flow of water that the instructors can change the speed and direction of at will. A skinny boy around Katniss' age disappears under a sudden change in the current, and my picking him up earns me a dirty look from Servilia's brother, who seems to have been banished here after his humiliation the previous day.

"Feeling better?" I ask with a smirk, and look away, my attention on the kid, who shrugs out of my grip the instant we're across, embarrassed at needing to be helped.

Katniss is once again the focus of stares from the smaller kids, who watch her fly around the miniature forest and all but run up the walls. I look back over at the Careers and see that Haymitch was right. They're all focused on their fighting and on each other, none of them even the least bit concerned what anyone else does if it doesn't involve a weapon. Most of the Gamemakers, however, are watching the assault course through their binoculars. I'm fairly certain it isn't me they're focused on.

The second assault course has no prescribed tracks or direction, allowing each of us to tackle it in any way we wish, or stay in one particular area if need be. Climbing seems to be my real weak spot, so I spend most of the hours until lunch at the rock walls and trees. Katniss helps me out here, and I quickly gain confidence, if not speed. At the very least, I won't embarrass myself in the arena, and if I'm faced with some trap or mutt I can't fight, escaping might be an option.

By lunch we're both starving, sweaty, and caked in mud from crawling through a makeshift riverbed, the aim of which is apparently to sneak up on the instructor at the far end and grab his own weapon out from under him. Only Katniss and the girl from Three managed it. Everyone else just got tossed back into the mud.

We load up our plates and fall into our seats at the table furthest from everyone else. We've barely started on our food when I hear a familiar shuffling, and barely suppress a groan. This girl's mouth is going to get us all killed.

She plants herself beside me, no tray in sight, and proceeds to help herself to a bowl of mixed fruit from mine. "So, where _did_ you learn to shoot like that?" she asks, continuing our conversation from hours ago as if we never abandoned her.

Katniss glances at me first. I shrug. It's not like anyone is close enough to hear us. "I hunt," she whispers. "In the woods around Twelve."

"Wow. How do you sneak that past the Peacekeepers?"

She shrugs. "I don't. They're my best customers."

Resa's eyes go big as saucers. "And they actually just buy from you? As opposed to shooting you and taking what you've got?"

We both gape at her. Apparently the Peacekeepers in Seven aren't much like ours in Twelve.

"So far," Katniss eventually manages.

"I take it they're not so lenient where you come from?" I ask. Communication between the Districts is non-existent. All we get is the most basic information in school and what the Capitol wants us to see on television.

"Last month our Head whipped a twelve-year-old girl to death for illegally gathering pine cones for a fire." She says it with no inflection at all.

Is this the norm in the other Districts? I dimly remember our old Head Peacekeeper was quite fond of whippings. His victims usually survived, if they could afford the apothecary's help. Katniss' mother was option two, but unless she had bad weather on her side, that didn't always work out well.

I glance at Katniss. She wouldn't remember the whippings, and I doubt her mother will have relayed those horror stories. Or the fact that her father was one of the victims.

Luckily, we got a new Head soon after that. The old one fell down the steps into the Hob before Katniss' father was even back on his feet. Though I've heard it said once or twice that we were better off with the old one. Gaius may have been scum, but he never lured teenage girls into his bed so they could feed their families.

"What happened to your leg?" Katniss blurts suddenly.

Resa looks down, flexing her new foot experimentally. "I was working in the sawmill. They rotate us in and out of there. Most of the kids only work when we're behind on our quotas, but there are always one or two in the mills, since they need someone small enough to move inside of the works if something jams up the machines."

Katniss blanches. "I guess we're lucky like that. They force us to tour the mines sometimes, but we're not actually put to work there." She glances at Resa's foot. "A sawblade?"

"No. I was just crawling out from under the blades when the whole thing blew. A couple of guys were killed in the explosion. My father died trying to get me out. Once they put the fire out they found me still alive underneath.

"My foot was caught under a bunch of scrap. Felt okay, I just couldn't get it free, so the workers started taking the whole machine apart to get me free."

I'm a little confused at this. "But if you weren't hurt," I begin to ask.

She grins mirthlessly. "We were behind on our quotas. Some enterprising Peacekeeper decided they were taking too long, and that the more they stripped down the machine, the further behind we'd be by the time they put it back together. Fortunately there were plenty of axes on hand, and the mill was back on schedule by the time they'd buried my father and the others."

I've never been more grateful for growing up in Twelve.

Resa spends the rest of the meal cheerfully - and loudly - detailing the abuses of the District Seven Peacekeepers, and unable to think of any way to shut her up, I let her rant until it's time to go back inside.

As soon as we're back in the gym, Katniss and I make a beeline for the weapons, while Resa hobbles back to the edible plants station where she spent all of yesterday and this morning.

I grab the blunted tomahawks and scan for Servilia. Working with another instructor might be a good idea, but Servilia's the only one I think I could stomach.

I hear a cry of protest, and turn to see Katniss being held up on her toes, the thing from Six with her braid curled around his fist.

Katniss fumbles for an arrow from the basket in front of her. Before she can reach one, the boy falls back with a screech, releasing her and stumbling as a glancing blow from one of my tomahawks opens a bloody gash just above his eye.

I close the space between us before he can even attempt to regain his balance, even out the other side of his face with my fist, knocking him to the floor, and stomp on his chest as he lays there, flat on the ground and stunned beyond any hope of defending himself.

I'm rewarded with the satisfying cracks of multiple ribs, and stomp on him a second time before I'm tackled from the side. I grab my attacker and toss her hard to the ground, drawing back my fist, only then realising my hand is closed around Katniss' throat.

I jump back, releasing her, and two pairs of hands close on me, hauling me onto my back and holding me there. Katniss is on her feet quickly, rubbing at her neck and watching me with wide, frightened eyes.

The boy from Six is choking, clutching at his chest in terror as he tries and fails to draw breath. Atala grabs him and turns him roughly on his side, and a river of blood pours out of his mouth. He struggles against her grip, but she holds him as easily as one would a child.

The entire assemblage of Tributes and instructors are gathered around us, mostly watching the dying monster. The Careers are laughing. Of course they are. I can't see the Gamemakers, held firmly as I am, but I'm sure they're greatly amused by my insanity, too.

Katniss moves towards me slowly. Servilia is one of those holding me down, and orders her to stay back. She ignores her. "Are you okay?" she asks, eyeing me worriedly.

Am _I_ okay? I barely stopped short of doing to her what I did to Haymitch, and another of my victims may well be gasping his last breaths just a few feet away, and she's worried about me?

Ashamed, I shrug off Servilia and the other instructor, and they don't stop me. I turn away from Katniss and the bloody mess of a boy, shove my way through the wall of Tributes and march to the elevator.

* * *

I don't know how much later it is when the pounding on my bedroom door wakes me. I consider ignoring it, but eventually I cross the floor, my feet screaming in protest every step of the way.

"Are you alright?" Portia demands, pushing past me into the room. She stops short at the trail of bloody smears leading from the bed to the door, then spies the older trail leading from the bathroom to the bed. "Get a doctor!" she snaps, and a scurrying of feet from without answers.

"You," she says, pointing to a nearby chair, "sit."

I more or less collapse into the chair while Portia marches to the bathroom and steps timidly inside. Nothing shows on her face, but her voice is ice when she return clutching a pair of small towels, one of them dripping wet. "Trashing the room I understand,” she tells me, indicating the mess of broken glass and blood in the bathroom, “but how is cutting your hands and feet to ribbons meant to hurt the Gamemakers?"

"Did he die?" I demand by way of response.

"No. He'll live, though what condition he'll be in when the Games start is anyone's guess. I'm sure Haymitch will be pleased." She wipes gently at one of my feet with the wet towel, eliciting a wince from me. "There's glass in there," she announces. "Idiot. Didn't you manage to vent enough of your frustration on the other boy?"

"Is Katniss alright?"

"Why wouldn't she be?" She pauses. "She just said the boy from Six grabbed her and you dealt with him. Did he hurt her?"

Before I can answer, the Avox boy slips into the room with an older man in tow. The doctor is all in white, though the professionalism of the image is somewhat ruined by his hair, black and shot through with pink and yellow.

"The shower door and bathroom mirror are smashed to pieces," Portia tells the Avox boy, who nods and vanishes again. He gives no sign that there's anything unusual about this situation. Maybe there isn't. They probably get Tributes losing their minds every year.

The doctor gets to work without a word, only clucking occasionally as he pulls shards of glass out of my feet. Portia moves to my hands. There doesn't seem to be any glass stuck in them, but my right is throbbing painfully. Portia notices my discomfort as she cleans and examines it. "I think you broke a knuckle. Idiot," she mutters again.

"That happened in the gym."

The doctor clucks again. "The instructors are supposed to be training you, not breaking you."

"I broke it myself," I tell him, "on that thing's face."

"You did that?" he asks, interested. "I assumed he'd fallen off the climbing wall or something like that."

Didn't they tell the doctors what happened when they brought him to them? He seems to catch the question in my expression. "We're kept in the dark as much as possible about training. The Gamemakers are quite paranoid about sensitive information finding its way to the sponsors and gamblers."

All the glass seems to be out of my feet, and he goes about cleaning them and bandaging them. "Most of these aren't too bad. I have a cream that will help them heal, but it'll have to wait a few hours. This one," he says, pointing to a larger slice on my right foot, "is a bit worse. I'd rather not suture it. The stitches would still be in when you go into the arena, and that could lead to all manner of problems."

He uses some sort of glue to close the wound, then applies another bandage and wraps up the whole foot, and does the same with the other before moving to my hands. The cuts are shallow, and the knuckle isn't broken as Portia thought. "The finger's dislocated," he tells me. He places Portia's hands around mine. "This will hurt."

Before I can ask what, he pulls on my hand and twists, and I can't help but scream. He follows up by jamming a needle filled with some blue liquid into my hand. He pushes the plunger and I cry out in protest again as the blood in my veins seems to freeze over, but by the time he's got my hand bandaged, the burning has subsided and I've stopped cursing him and his family.

"Stay off your feet as much as possible, and take this with your dinner," he tells me, pressing a single white pill in a foil packet into my good hand. "You'll have to skip the morning training session. I'll come by before I start my shift to apply the cream to your cuts."

"What about the private training?" Portia asks, glancing doubtfully at my feet.

"He'll be uncomfortable, no doubt," the doctor tells her carelessly. "But hopefully it won't have too much of an effect on his performance, and he should be right as rain by the time the Games start."

"Fattened, prettied up and ready for slaughter," I announce in a growly approximation of his stupid Capitol accent.

He flashes a set of perfect white teeth, oblivious to my temper and probably delighted with my festive Hunger Games spirit.

Once he's gone, Portia gives me a quick once over. "Well, I'm not leaving you in here to destroy yourself again, and Haymitch will no doubt want to talk about the day's developments," she tells me, eyeing me dubiously. "Can you make it as far as the dining room, or should I call for someone to carry you?"

"I think I'll walk," I snap, and regret it as soon as I push myself out of the chair. With Portia's help, I make my slow way to the dining room and into my chair.

Katniss and Cinna are already at the table, eyebrows raised in twin concern when they see me. Katniss is wearing an odd, high collared and very pink sequined blouse. I wince, not because the thing is so damned ugly on her, but because my brothers and I used to wear a lot of long-sleeved shirts on hot summer days. Nowadays my bruises all come from wrestling and _Blitz,_ and don't need hiding.

Peeta will probably take to wearing long sleeves again.

Katniss and I both open our mouths at the same time, and are both cut off when the doors are flung open, and Haymitch storms in.

He's been drinking again, and despite Portia's prediction, he looks far from happy. Effie trails him, silver dress, crooked silver wig, looking distressed. She takes her seat, looking worriedly at Katniss. Haymitch is focused on Katniss too, dropping heavily into his chair and glaring at her through bloodshot eyes.

"What the hell did you do?" he demands, spitting with every sound. His hard consonants still aren't coming through properly. I wonder idly if that will be permanent.

"I nearly got my hair pulled out by some ugly monster who slurs his words even more than you," Katniss retorts angrily. "Was your day more productive?"

"It was more or less like you said," I blurt, trying to head off the fight they both seem to want. "Except it was that thing from Six," I add, thinking of how Resa described him, "and he went after Katniss instead of coming right at me."

"I already know about that," Haymitch says dismissively. "Hermes' exact words were 'the maniac will live, more's the pity.' What I want to know," he snarls, never taking his eyes off Katniss, "is why I had to spend last night and most of today fighting off mentors, all of whom want to fix alliances with _her_ , after I specifically told her to keep a low profile?!"

"Which mentors?" Cinna asks, interested.

"Damn near all of them!" he roars. "First I get mobbed by Three, Five and Ten, who apparently know a lot more about her than they should. Then everyone else follows suit. The Career lot don't seem to know _why_ she's suddenly so popular, but hell if they don't want to snap her up anyway. What. Did. You. Do?"

I realise exactly what's happened. Everyone who saw Katniss shoot will have told their mentors about it at dinner last night. Resa, resigned to the inevitable, didn't bother relaying anything, so outside of the Careers, the boy from Seven might be the only one who doesn't know.

"They saw her shoot," I announce, and Haymitch looks on the verge of shouting again. "It was after One and Two threw the javelins at my yesterday. The Careers had already left."

Haymitch opens his mouth. Growls. Closes it again. "You said she was good," he grumbles, finally taking his eyes off her but apparently still reluctant to address her unless he gets to shout. " _That_ good?"

"She sure put smiles on a lot of faces," I tell him, and Katniss chuckles, all her smugness from the previous day returned.

"Well, isn't that just wonderful?" Haymitch singsongs. "Congratulations sweetheart. Now everyone wants you either on their team or dead, and we haven't even gotten to the training scores yet."

"Oh, don't be such a drama queen," Effie drawls, rolling her eyes. "The Careers still don't know about her shooting, and nobody's about to tell them. The plebes," she says, drawing a circle in the air, apparently to encompass the other Districts, "will mostly be too afraid to go up against her. If Katniss wants to form an alliance, she can pick and choose, and outside of the Careers any alliance can be entirely on her terms."

"Assuming she survives the first minute of the Games! If the Careers can't have her, they can't let her get away from the Cornucopia alive. I'd give the _cripple_ better odds than her now!"

Effie purses her lips, and the stylists are looking unhappy. Portia glares at Haymitch while Cinna regards Katniss with concern.

"Well, that should simplify things." All eyes shift to Katniss. "There'll be no need for you to waste time on me or pretend you haven't already picked your Tribute," she says, staring coolly at Haymitch. Her voice is as dull as Resa's describing the whipping death of a child. The brutal murder of a young girl. Nothing but what is expected.

As much as I despise Haymitch, I can almost respect him for his reaction. He meets Katniss' cold stare with one of his own, and as I watch them I know that he never had her fooled for a second, and didn't think he had. It's as if each of them wrote the other off by mutual agreement. Katniss taking my advice to focus on the Gamemakers has nothing to do with hating Haymitch. She knows he can't, or won't, help her. She never expected him to choose the short, skinny little girl over the brute, no matter how good she was.

Now I know why Haymitch finds it easier to live inside a bottle. Of all the Districts, only Twelve has a single mentor for two Tributes. Even if he made an effort every year, he could only ever champion one, effectively consenting to the death of the other.

Maybe he tried for a couple of years. I'm too young to remember; Haymitch has been mentoring longer than I've been breathing, and our only other Victor died years before his Games. How many times did he choose one child over another, maybe hoping he'd end up with a partner to take one while he focused on the other, before it got to be too much? Before he took to drowning his choices with alcohol, letting all the death pass him by as he waited in a stupor for his own?

And if he's lucky enough that he somehow manages to get me out alive? I have no illusions that he'll work with me in future Games. There isn't enough left of Haymitch to continue down this road. He'll retreat into his bottle, never to surface again, while I become the lone true mentor for District Twelve's steady stream of condemned children.

Maybe, just maybe, there's a little compassion in him after all. Just enough not to want to burden a thirteen-year-old girl with managing him and the Games. He remembered Katniss' father, and he can't be too oblivious to know just how good Katniss would need to be to replace him. The best hunter in District Twelve. It isn't impossible and he knows it. What a hit she'd be; the youngest Victor ever.

With the heaviest burden.

Is that the real reason Haymitch picked me? Not because he doesn't think Katniss could win, but because he's afraid of what she'd have to endure if she does? Haymitch doesn't want a child he'll have to manage; he wants his replacement.

"When have I ever pretended?" Haymitch asks, his unwavering gaze on Katniss. "We both know how it is, sweetheart. Two Tributes, one drunk, and only one survivor out of twenty-four. I never let on that I was hedging my bets.

"As for you, the best chance you had was in impressing the Gamemakers, maybe finding an ally, and avoiding being noticed by the Careers. Now they all know about you, even if they don't know what it is you can do. The bullseye on your back makes you poison for an alliance.

"All you had to do was what you were told." Haymitch produces a flask and takes a big swig. "And you blew it. I couldn't help you now if I wanted to, and even if I did, your little stunt proved you're too stupid to be saved."

He reaches for the carafe in the middle of the table, pours himself a large glass of wine, and promptly turns to a nearby Avox to demand a ‘real’ drink. The girl looks at Effie for confirmation, but her eyes are rooted to the table. Then she turns and leaves to get Haymitch his drink.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Bannock_ **

I hobble into the dining room the next morning, my right foot a numb, dead weight. The doctor assured me I'll have the feeling back in plenty of time for my private training session. He also told me I should stay off my feet until it's time for me to go down, but I need to talk to Haymitch.

Talking to him last night wasn't an option. After Katniss stormed out at dinner, his drinking worsened, and he spent the remainder of the evening hurling insults at the rest of us. He still had plenty of vitriol for Katniss despite her not being there to hear it, but it was the 'traitor' Cinna, whom Haymitch apparently knew all along wasn't Capitol, who got the worst of it when he sent away an Avox who had been bringing more drinks. The climax of the evening was Haymitch throwing up all over the table while dessert was being served.

The pill Portia had to remind me to take knocked me out almost before I could make it back to my room. The returning doctor had to wake me, and now that he's gone I've missed breakfast. The food hasn't been cleared away, but the dirty plates and cups are being gathered, and though it seems everyone but me was here, they're all gone now.

A little relieved that I don't have to eat at that table after what Haymitch did to it last night, I grab a pile of toast to eat on the go and make my slow way to the elevators.

The mentors and potential sponsors are in the same bar as before, and though they won't let me in, a Peacekeeper eventually agrees to haul Haymitch out to talk to me. I'm brushing the last crumbs of toast off my jacket by the time he arrives. He has a glass in his hand, evidently on track to curing his hangover by getting drunk all over again.

"What now?" he grumbles, taking in my awkward stance and the bandage still on my hand. He was too far gone to notice either last night. "Don't tell me I've got a cripple _and_ the village idiot to deal with."

"I want to ally with Katniss."

He stops with the glass at his lips, then sets it down on the ground, crosses his arms and regards me critically. "Why? So you can save her from the Capitol and your mean old mentor? Be the big dumb hero of the Seventy-first Hunger Games?"

"It makes sense," I insist. "I don't much like the idea of teaming up with anyone, but if it's me and Katniss, you don't have to choose one of us over the other, at least at first. The decision might be taken out of your hands altogether. That still ups your chances of being able to save at least one of us."

Haymitch shakes his head. "They'll be gunning for her. The only way she gets a weapon is if she goes into the Cornucopia to get it, and she'll never come out alive. Neither will you if you're too busy protecting her to look after yourself."

"We'll figure something out. Maybe I can go in for both of us while she runs. We could find each other later."

"Risky. You'll be in there longer, and trying to carry a lot of crap out." He doesn't look happy, but he's thinking about it, and I would guess liking the idea of not having to condemn a thirteen-year-old himself.

I say nothing, waiting for him to make his own decision. If he vetoes the idea, I'll suggest it to Katniss anyway. He can't very well turn his back on both of us for going against his orders - Effie won't let all her efforts go to waste. But this will go a lot more smoothly if we don't have to fight Haymitch every step of the way.

"Get back upstairs," he says eventually. "I don't want you doing anything to make your injuries worse before your private training." He turns his back on me. "Tonight we can start working on some sort of team strategy," he calls over his shoulder.

The Peacekeeper at the entranceway to the bar nudges him with an elbow and points to the glass on the ground. "Do I look like an Avox?" Haymitch asks belligerently, and pushes past him.

"Not yet," the Peacekeeper growls at his back.

Back in my room, I sprawl on the plush sofa and switch on the television. Back home there's one channel, reserved for sanitised news and mandatory broadcasts. Here I flick through forty channels before I find one that isn't Hunger Games news, interviews with Gamemakers and mentors, or clip shows of old Games.

One of the Hunger Games items does catch my attention, brief as it is. What's most interesting is that it portrays a side of the Games I've never seen. Likely nobody in the Districts has; the Capitol wouldn't want us seeing them with egg on their faces.

It's the Head Gamemaker from last year, looking much less put together than the last time I saw her, struggling to force her way through a throng of openly jeering reporters. Every question is sheer mockery, designed to goad her into a response, but she pushes resolutely through the gauntlet, and seems to be free, when one reporter asks if she thinks she'll ever work the Games again. She throws her handbag at him, he drops his mic to catch it, and thanks her with a grin.

Last year, the woman whose name I can't remember had been hailed as a rising star; the youngest female Head ever. Then she had the idea of flooding the arena in the hope of shaking up a slow Games, and instead wound up with only a single survivor, and a basket case at that. Usually a Victor dominates the airwaves in the lead-up to the next Hunger Games, but Annie Cresta has been kept out of sight as much as possible. No interviews, and she's been glimpsed only once or twice, clinging to one or the other of her fellow mentors like a life-raft. As for the former Head Gamemaker, I'd imagine her chances of working the Games again are somewhat lower than Annie's chances of having a normal life.

Flicking through the channels until I finally find something non-Games related, I spend about ten minutes trying to figure out the bizarre melodrama being played out in what apparently is a Capitol hospital. The acting is worse than the accents, and after three sexual trysts and an unfolding murder plot, I give up and go back to browsing the channels. Some are given over entirely to shopping, some to cooking, and one to the weather, and then I'm back where I started.

Giving up, I grab the lone book in my room - a thick tome of flowery, aimless poetry - and head up to the roof garden. The book is worse than the television, but it serves as a distraction, and the hours fly by as I read.

I'm most of the way through the book when a hand falls on my shoulder. "We've just had a visit from a Peacekeeper, demanding to know where you were," Cinna tells me. "We all assumed you were down there waiting with the others, like you should have been hours ago." He takes the book and examines the cover with some amusement.

"What time is it?" I ask, panicking. I thought it was maybe coming up on lunchtime, when in fact it's hours past, and I'm supposed to be waiting outside the gym with everyone else.

"Not to worry," Cinna assures me. "Twelve always goes last, and they can't exactly punish you. I doubt the Gamemakers even know you're missing."

We pause in the dining room long enough for me to gulp down a glass of water and a banana, and Cinna walks with me to the elevator. "Good luck," he tells me, and then he's gone.

Down in the corridor I get a few puzzled looks from the other Tributes, and a glare from Servilia's brother, one of two instructors watching over them. I ignore them, taking the seat next to Katniss.

"How's your foot?" she asks. "And your hand."

I'd actually forgotten all about both until she brought it up. I glance at her, taking in the upturned collar of her jacket. She shakes her head slightly, eyes roving over the remaining Tributes.

"Itchy, and a little sore, but it shouldn't be a problem." My hand is a little stiff in the bandage, so I tear it off, flexing the fingers experimentally while I look around the room. I've missed most of the others; all that remains is the girl from Eight on upwards.

"I wonder what Resa did in her session," I mutter idly.

"She brought a book."

I laugh, because what else could she do? Eat a few plants and make a show of not being dead? Katniss allows herself a little smile.

There's little else to say after that. I don't want to bring up the alliance yet, and it'll be better coming from Haymitch, assuming he's sober by the time we get back upstairs. It's the closest these two will get to a ceasefire, and Katniss might be more amenable if she doesn't think I bullied Haymitch into it so he can pretend to support her.

We sit in silence as the minutes tick slowly by, and I'm wishing I was back on the roof with my terrible poetry. The girl from Eight is summoned, the boy from Nine an eternity later. I'm squirming in my seat by the time the girl from Eleven goes in. Katniss seems well enough at ease other than a slight tension in the set of her shoulders.

Finally it's my turn. "Happy shooting," I say to Katniss. She nods tightly.

The gym floor is deserted except for a pair of Avoxes just inside the opposite doors. The Gamemakers in the balcony above don't seem to notice the arrival of a new Tribute. They're having too much fun, eating, drinking and laughing. A tall man with a mass of spiky green hair is juggling apples, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing here.

There are no instructors, nobody to show off the combat techniques with. I think about calling up to the Gamemakers to ask if anyone is available, but I know there won't be, and I'd rather not address the Gamemakers directly. I'd be too tempted to throw an axe.

Resigned, I grab the sharpened tomahawks from the long-range weapons station, along with a harness to strap them to my shoulders, and run to the larger assault course.

Hurriedly picking out a route, I move as quickly along the course as I can, making better time on the climbing walls than I ever did yesterday, and easily fording the river, the flow of which is set at its highest speed.

I stumble on the walking beam tree-trunks, and barely catch myself before falling into the pool below. The beam is wet; every time I try to haul myself up I lose my grip and I'm left dangling uselessly over the water. I'm wasting valuable time. I could just let go and trudge out of the pool, but if I have the attention of a single Gamemaker, I don't think losing a fight with a tree and walking away dripping wet and humiliated will impress them.

Barely maintaining my grip on the slippery wood, I reach over my shoulder with one arm, grab a tomahawk and drive it into the beam with as much strength as I can muster, pulling myself up by main strength.

Walking quickly off the beam I surge through the rest of the course. A buzzer sounds as I'm rushing back to the target range, but nobody says anything, so I don't stop. Running past the racks of weapons, I fling the first tomahawk down the range, grab the second and send it sailing after its twin. The first sticks in a mannequin’s face. The second hits a two-dimensional target with a human torso and head drawn on it, but I wasn't aiming for the bullseye. It hits below the image, right where the imaginary person's crotch would be.

I turn to the Gamemakers, two of whom are watching. One of them looks vaguely familiar – a face I’ve seen on television, though I can’t remember his name. He looks at the mannequin and laughs before turning away. The other gives what I assume is meant to be a polite two seconds of applause. The apple juggler is still the center of attention.

Furious, I stalk past the Avoxes at the door. I'm in the elevator when I realise I'm still wearing the tomahawk harness, and tear it off, leaving it on the elevator floor. What a waste of time.

Why did it never occur to me that there would be no way to demonstrate any of the combat skills I'd been working on? Why didn't Haymitch think to mention it? Not that it would have mattered; I could have danced naked in front of the Gamemakers and they wouldn't have noticed.

I flop down on the couch, switch on the stupid television, and sit there watching who-knows-what until Portia comes knocking on my door. Dinner time.

Effie is all cheer, eagerly asking me about my private training. I grunt a response, but she doesn't seem to notice. Back in the dining room, it turns out I'm not the only one who had a bad afternoon. Katniss, it seems, is refusing to come out of her room.

Haymitch is leaning against the table, sipping what I hope is just coffee. He seems sober enough, and I wonder if the idea of an alliance was enough to get him interested in his Tributes again.

He rolls his eyes. "How awful could she have been, so long as she didn't open her mouth?"

Cinna shoots him an annoyed glance. "Maybe I can coax her out."

Haymitch shrugs and moves to his seat. "Be quick about it. I'm hungry."

The rest of us join Haymitch at the table. "Okay, so while we're waiting to find out about her, how much of a disaster were you?" he demands.

"It hardly matters," I tell him. "The Gamemakers were hammered. Two of them watched me a bit, and the rest were all focused on one of their colleagues' apple juggling."

"So, you got outperformed by a bunch of apples?"

"Well, it certainly didn't help that there were no instructors on hand; no way to show what I could do in close combat." I glare at Haymitch. "If my mentor hadn't been too drunk to talk strategy last night, I might have known that. I could have gone in there with some kind of plan."

Haymitch has the good grace to look embarrassed, and then Cinna returns, a disheveled and red-eyed Katniss in tow. Haymitch eyes her carefully as she takes her seat. "What happened?" he asks, not unkindly.

Now it's my turn to be uncomfortable, because Katniss isn't wearing the ugly high-collared shirt she had last night, and I don't know if Haymitch is asking about her training or the yellowing bruises on her throat.

Katniss' only response is to shake her head. Haymitch waits a moment, shrugs, and signals an Avox that we're ready for dinner.

The meal passes entirely in silence. When Haymitch finishes his coffee he moves on to wine, but only finishes a single glass. The only course Katniss gets through is the soup, and that with prompting from Cinna. She barely touches anything else. Haymitch, on the other hand, eats more than he has since the train.

When the Avoxes come to clear the dessert plates, we move into the living room and sit together on the enormous couch. The television is already on, and Caesar Flickerman, presenter of the Games for longer than I can remember, is finishing up a conversation with a reporter who's been interviewing rich gamblers and potential sponsors in the bar on the ground floor of the Training Center.

Soon it's time for the training scores. Every Tribute is assigned points out of twelve, giving the sponsors and gamblers an idea of what each Tribute may be worth in terms of investment. The first surprise is the boy from Four, who nets only a six where his fellow Careers all score in the eight to ten range. Even Caesar can't quite conceal his surprise, but passes no comment. The experts on after him will probably have a good time with it, though.

The thing from Six gets a five. I must have done him more harm than anyone let on; I doubt he has much by way of brains, but he's certainly physical enough to be at least close to the Careers.

The boy from Seven gets an eight, and Resa a one. No points for guts. I hope she at least enjoyed her book.

The rest from Eight to Eleven are no more than anyone expects, not one of them getting more than a five.

So far only the boy from Seven has really impressed. The Careers, except for the boy from Four, did what was expected of them, and only the boy from One hit a ten.

Caesar calls out my name, and a headshot of me taken during the parade appears onscreen, with me looking vaguely ill. Right now I feel much worse.

Then my jaw drops, because the number that appears flashing next to my picture is a ten. Effie gives an ear-shattering screech of delight, and Portia hugs me tightly. A laugh and a clap on the back from Cinna, and even Haymitch is smiling.

I can hardly believe it. They've ranked me next to the best of the Careers. Tied for the top score.

Caesar has gotten to the end of his roll call, and Katniss tenses up at the sound of her name. She's not even looking at the screen, just keeps her eyes on her feet while her fingernails gouge into the couch cushions.

There's an instant of dead silence as the number flashes next to Katniss' picture. Katniss herself only looks up at Effie's encore of screaming, shriller than ever, and by then the eleven and her picture are gone, and Caesar Flickerman isn't bothering to conceal his amazement.

Haymitch barks at Effie to shut up, and we hear Caesar passing off the broadcast to a panel of former Gamemakers, who launch into an immediate frenzy. One of them immediately points out that Katniss must easily be the youngest Tribute to ever score an eleven in training, and that's when she hears it for the first time.

"Eleven?" she squeaks. "But that... how?"

"You tell us," Haymitch says. "What the hell did you do in there?" It's the first time he's asked her a question without spitting, growling or laughing, but something is very wrong. He looks scared.

Katniss doesn't notice. She sits gaping at the screen until Cinna switches off the sound, and takes a deep breath.

"I shot at the Gamemakers."

Effie's eyebrows climb up under her wig. Haymitch gives what sounds like a very forced laugh, and when Katniss looks at him again, all trace of fear is gone from his face. "From the top, sweetheart. Let's hear it."

"They were all drunk," she says in a rush. "Every one of them was joking and throwing food around, not watching me at all. Then one of them started yelling over the others, calling a toast.

"So when he raised his glass, I shot the stupid thing right out of his hand!" She says it defensively, daring anyone to rebuke her for it.

Effie happily accepts the challenge. "Are you insane?" she squeaks. "Of course, it's disgraceful of them to ignore you like that," and with that she glances frantically around the room, apparently worried that now people are going to start rebuking _her_ for criticising the Gamemakers, "but what if someone had been hurt? You could have had a Gamemaker's eye out with broken glass!"

Katniss shrugs, more confident now that only Effie seems truly scandalised by her actions. "It cut his lip, but he still had both his eyes when I left."

Effie looks like she might faint.

"What did they say?" Cinna interjects.

"I don't know. I left while they were all swarming him."

"Without being dismissed?" Effie demands, as if not asking permission to leave might be worse than assaulting a Gamemaker.

"Who was it?" Haymitch asks quietly. "The one who was hurt?"

"The Head for this year; the one with the stenciled beard."

"Seneca Crane," I supply, remembering an interview he had with Caesar Flickerman the night before the Reaping.

"Well, he must have liked your spirit," Haymitch mutters gruffly. "We are here to put on a show, after all."

"But they can't just let me away with something like that, can they?" Katniss asks, suddenly looking panicked, now that she sees how pale Haymitch has gone.

"They can't punish you either," Haymitch assures her, forced steadiness in his voice. "They'd have to say why, and the training is private. Even if they did tell anyone what happened, it'd be them looking bad, not you."

"What about my family?" she squeaks.

Haymitch opens his mouth, but no sound emerges.

"Too much coincidence," Cinna offers. "If something were to happen to your family right when you've made Hunger Games history, the rumours would start flying. Everyone in the Capitol would want to know why, and nobody would believe it was just an accident. Crane probably wouldn't be punished, but if was caught lashing out at your family because you embarrassed him in front of his colleagues he would be humiliated, and in the Capitol that's even worse."

"He's right," Effie says. "Social standing is too much to risk. He'd be a laughing stock, and so would his Games."

I'm sure last year's Head could well attest to the lingering effects of embarrassment on the Capitol stage.

Katniss seems cheered by Effie and Cinna, but I'm still watching Haymitch, who despite his words, doesn't seem all that certain of Katniss' safety in the wake of the shooting. It isn't long before he's sending her off to her room, with orders to eat something and get plenty of sleep.

The instant the door closes behind her, Haymitch drops his face into his hands, snarling obscenities. "It just had to Crane, of all people," he finally mutters.

He raises his head, looks me in the eye. "You can't team up with her," he says, his voice hoarse. "She's already dead, and if you're caught with her, you will be too."

I ignore his orders. "Tell me about Crane."

Haymitch's mouth stretches into a tight line, and I think it's my turn to be sent away. "The second Quarter Quell.”

“The year you won?”

He nods. “If a District doesn’t have a surviving Victor, the Capitol supplies a mentor.” He snatches a bottle of wine and fills the biggest glass in reach, gulping the whole glass before refilling it.

While he’s drinking I recall the face of the Gamemaker who laughed when I castrated a training dummy, and I remember why he was familiar. He mentored a District Nine boy to victory in what I think was the sixtieth Hunger Games.

“In the second Quarter Quell, the twist was that they doubled the Tributes. So, rather than having one mentor for four District Twelve Tributes, they doubled the mentors too. The brothers Lepidus and Seneca – nephews of the Head Gamemaker, Antius Crane.”

“Seneca Crane was your mentor?” I glance around, confused. Nobody else seems to understand, either. “But you won. Crane should love you.”

Haymitch gives a small shake of his head. “No. Crane managed the girl Tributes, and Lepidus got the boys. And before I was out of the hospital, Antius and Lepidus had both been hanged. They made Seneca watch.”

“Why?” asks Cinna, probably the only person other than me not old enough to remember the second Quarter Quell. “And why would they tell you? That’s the kind of thing they like to keep under wraps.”

“Because sometimes the Games are embarrassing for more than just the Gamemakers. When that happens, someone has to pay. In this case, the Head Gamemaker and the problem Tribute’s mentor. And I know because Seneca wanted me to know.” With that he drains his second glass and glares at the empty bottle.

I consider that for a moment. "So Crane wants his revenge against you, and he's going to take it out on Katniss?"

"He's had his revenge on me!" Haymitch roars, causing everyone to flinch. "He had the Peacekeepers arrest my brother on some bullshit charge and publicly execute him, and arranged convenient little accidents for my mother and my girlfriend." He's shaking with rage. "Killing _her_ will just be a bonus. He gets to put down a rebellious kid and thumb his nose at me at the same time. And Crane is just the kind of petty little tyrant to wage war on a child. He'll want everyone who saw what happened to him to see what happens to her."

"The training score was a signal," Cinna breathes.

"A target," Haymitch clarifies. "The Careers will be gunning for her from the very beginning. They can't be shown up by a little girl from the coal district, so killing her will be priority number one. And if they don't get it done, he'll use the arena. Anybody who's with her will be a target, too."

"You can't just write her off..."

"I can't help her either. Nobody can. It's time to start thinking of yourself, kid. You still have a chance of going home."

The argument goes back and forth for most of an hour. Effie, Portia and I all try to convince Haymitch, but the more we talk the angrier he gets. Cinna hardly says a word the entire time; he just sits and stares, his gaze flickering between Haymitch, the silent television, and the corridor to Katniss' room.

Finally Haymitch has had enough and storms off, knocking Effie down when she stands in front of him. I help her to her feet, and she straightens her wig delicately. "I don't think we're going to accomplish anything else tonight," she says, on the verge of tears. "You should go get some sleep." With that she leaves the room on shaky legs.

"Can you spare Vorena tomorrow?" Cinna asks, turning to Portia as soon as Effie's out of earshot. "I'll need to go back to the drawing board on Katniss' outfit, and getting it put together in time will be tricky."

"Of course.” She turns to me. “Your interview clothes are already done," she says reassuringly, but I don't really care. Cinna, at least, is not giving Katniss up for dead just yet.

"Can I borrow a pen and paper?" I blurt. "There's nothing to write with in my room."

Portia looks puzzled, but Cinna reaches into a pocket and produces a pen and a small notebook. "If you're writing home I'm afraid I don't really have anything more suitable on me, but you can just tear the pages out. I can bring you an envelope tomorrow."

"I might need a few."

"Don't leave the notebook or any envelopes lying around where an Avox might find them," he warns. "Tributes aren't supposed to be writing home, and if they're found they'll be handed over to the Gamemakers and destroyed. If you want to leave the letters with me, I'll pass them to Haymitch once you're in the arena."

I nod in acknowledgement, wish them both a good night, and go back to my room. I switch on the television to the same channel that was on outside, where the Hunger Games experts are still going strong. Turning the volume down a little, I open Cinna's notebook, finding it more than half-filled with sketches, impressively detailed despite the scale.

Katniss is on every second page, each time decked out in the costume detailed opposite; everything from soft-looking dresses and skirts, usually patterned with flowers or birds, making her look every inch the sweet little girl, to more practical ensembles of pants and boots with camouflage patterns.

The further along I go, the less there are or flowers and leaves, and the birds become more prominent. Despite the lack of colour, the mockingjays are easy to identify. In the final sketch she's wearing something similar to her training outfit, with her trademark braid and a drawn bow.

Yes, of one thing I can be certain; Cinna won't abandon his Tribute while she still breathes. Even if her mentor does.

Flipping to the first empty page, I pause for a moment, considering, then start writing. I continue well into the night, and so do the commentators on the television. I catch a few things here and there. Though Katniss is far and away the biggest surprise, it's myself and the boy from One who are considered the hot favourites, while the boy from Four, whose name is Senan, is something of a joke to them. They'd all assumed that with his volunteering at only fifteen he must have been something special, but now he's been outperformed by the entire Career pack and three Tributes from the outlying districts, one of whom is the smallest Tribute in the Games.

Eventually they finish up, but I'm still writing long after they've been replaced by the live coverage of various parties being thrown by major Capitolites I've never heard of. My eyes grow heavy, and the next thing I know I'm being shaken awake by the Avox boy. Does he ever sleep?

Remembering Cinna's warning about the letters, I stuff them under a couch cushion, wash up quickly and go to breakfast. It's only Effie and Katniss in attendance - the bruises on the neck of the latter thankfully fading more quickly than I'd expected - with Cinna and probably Portia hard at work, and Haymitch likely hard at drinking since last night.

"Eat up!" pipes Effie. "Today's going to a big, big, big day!"

"And what exactly does that big, big, big day involve?" Katniss asks dubiously.

"Well, you'll both be with me for the morning. Cinna and Portia will be sending over some clothes - not your actual interview outfits, just something we can practice with - so you'll need to change. We'll work on presentation and etiquette until lunch, and then move on to content. Haymitch should be joining us for that," she adds, though doubtfully.

After breakfast we're sent back to our rooms. In mine I find a dark blue suit and orange shirt along with a pair of shiny black shoes. It doesn't look too bad, but I don't think this is anything Portia made, and between the too-bright shirt and the stiffness of the material I can't seem to get comfortable in it. Back home we have our everyday clothes and our Reaping clothes, where the only difference between the two is a shirt with buttons.

I'm not long back in the living room when Katniss wobbles in wearing a full-length powder blue ball gown and high heels. "Don't you dare laugh," she scowls as soon as she sees me, and carefully makes her way to the couch. At the last she stumbles and plops down heavily next to me.

"Well, clearly we have our work cut out for us," Effie breathes. "You are not walking on a high wire Katniss, they're just shoes. You need to learn to walk properly in them, and preferably without snarling and snapping at everyone you see. However," she says, looking pointedly at me, "the proper thing for a _gentleman_ to do would have been to offer some assistance to a young lady in distress."

"Distress?" Katniss snarls.

"Lady?" I add, raising an eyebrow.

Effie rolls her eyes.

The next few hours are spent with each of us learning the fine arts of walking, smiling, talking and sitting.

Katniss' dress seems to be an obstacle to walking as much as the shoes - "Ankles, Katniss!" - while I apparently walk too stiffly at first, then not stiffly enough - "Stop swinging your arms! There's a rumour going around that we left the apes behind a few million years ago."

Effie likens my best attempt at a smile to a small child trying not to let his grandmother know how much she terrifies him, while Katniss' is described as "Maniacal. Is there somebody in the audience you plan on eating?"

I mumble and avoid eye contact. Katniss glares and growls. We both slouch and lack any semblance of posture.

By the time we break for lunch we're both ready to flee. Katniss asks if we're allowed to change. "Absolutely not. The point of the afternoon is to learn to be comfortable conducting the interview as you are."

"'As we are' is nothing like this," I point out.

"Well, you have until tomorrow to learn to be someone else, and I sincerely hope you learn quickly," Effie snaps, "because who you are now will earn neither of you sponsors. The point of the interview is to make people like you. Not pity you," she says to me, "or fear you," she adds, turning her gaze to Katniss.

Haymitch joins us halfway through lunch, badly hungover and stinking. Effie examines him from behind a napkin, and delicately suggests that she can handle the content work alone if he needs to sleep.

"Why?" Haymitch snaps. "What do you know about how to talk to people?" Effie swallows her reply rather than risk another argument, and nobody says anything else for the rest of the meal.

After lunch, Haymitch starts us off with Katniss and I facing each other. "Introduce yourselves. You've never met before and are telling each other about your lives."

Katniss volunteers next to nothing about herself - "Come on, sweetheart, there must be something about you worth talking about" - and I ramble - "The interview is three minutes, not three hours." Still, he keeps us going like this for an hour before attempting to issue any real instruction.

He has me try to play at being cocky, with Katniss going for sweet. A minute in he asks if we've forgotten who's who. We practice telling jokes, which have Haymitch declaring we'll put the audience to sleep. Apparently I'm at my funniest when I'm trying to be charming, but it's the kind of funny that will have people laughing at me rather than with me, and definitely won't win me sponsors, while Katniss has "all the charm of a dead slug."

I'm too uncomfortable to be threatening, while Katniss' natural hostility in someone so tiny is likely to make everyone else uncomfortable.

"Maybe we should just ask the Gamemakers if they can somehow help you switch bodies," Haymitch finally declares. "Enough is enough. Just fake your best smiles and try not to humiliate yourselves or me when you're out there."

"I'd say you've got humiliation pretty well covered," Katniss returns, storming off. About the only thing either one of has accomplished all day is that she can finally walk in those shoes, but there still isn't anything ladylike about her movements.

The last thing I want is to have dinner with Haymitch, so I eat in my room, with two desserts and a large glass of something called strongbeer. Apparently the keyword is 'strong'; even with all the food it packs enough of a kick to make me unsteady on my feet, so with nothing else to do I go to bed early.

I wake a little before dawn and dig out Cinna's notebook and the letters, reading over each one a couple of times before jumping in the shower. I take a chance and test a few of the different buttons on the control panel, resulting in one disaster after another before the entire bathroom finally fills with rose-scented bubbles.

Once I finally escape the bathroom I notice the pounding on my door; the doctor has returned to check my hands and feet. They're healing fine, there's no pain and only a little stiffness in the finger I'd dislocated, and he's quick enough that my prep team, who sidled in immediately behind him, don't quite force him out the door so they can get to work on me. This entire day is given over to prep and dressing me for my interview, before the actual interview itself.

Pullo and Lucius go about polishing me down and trimming my body hair again while Vorena works on washing and styling the hair on my head. For all that she spends hours working on it, starting over more than once, by the time she's done it's messier than I've ever seen it; an unruly mass of spikes with a lot more variation in shading than I remember. She seems happy enough, so I say nothing.

Portia arrives with my suit, black with a crimson shirt. There's a tie to match, but after a quick inspection she deems it unsuitable and instructs me to wear the jacket open. The lapels of the jacket are adorned with small silvery gemstones, as are the shirt buttons and cufflinks, which Portia has to fasten for me.

She steps back and looks me over, satisfied. "Well, you look ready. How do you feel?"

"Anything but," I tell her, though this suit is lot easier to move in than the one Effie had me wearing.

"You'll be fine. Caesar won't let anyone embarrass themselves on his time. Just be yourself."

"I don't think Haymitch would like that," I say, though I feel a little better. She's right about Caesar Flickerman. He's been hosting the Hunger Games longer than most of his audience can remember, and I've hardly ever seen him have a bad interview.

"I don't think Haymitch likes anything that doesn't come in a glass," Portia responds. "Forget about what Haymitch expects of you. This is your moment, and pretending to be someone else won't help anything. You can't spare the effort of playing a role in the arena, so don't waste any effort on it now."

She reaches into her bag and produces the envelopes Cinna had promised. I retrieve the notebook and my three finished letters, checking quickly to ensure I scribble the right names on the envelopes, before folding one inside the other, and that one inside the first. The recipient of the first letter will need to deliver the second one they find inside their own, and the person who gets that one should in turn should deliver the third.

Once done I pop the main envelope back inside the notebook, and offer my free arm to Portia. "The perfect gentleman," she tells me with a smile, looping her arm in mine. "Effie will be delighted."

Haymitch and Effie are waiting for us at the elevators. "You'll do," Haymitch says by way of greeting. He's clean and seems sober, and has been dressed up in a plain black suit and shirt. Effie scurries forward to button my jacket, but retreats at a look from Portia.

We're waiting maybe ten minutes for Katniss and Cinna. "Not exactly what I expected," Haymitch whispers, and I turn to see what he's mad about now.

Katniss is in a knee-length black and silver dress that looks more like armour than adornment. The skirt is simple enough, soft and wispy. When she gets close I realise that the entire dress is actually just like the skirt, and that the stiff, metallic bodice is a separate piece worn over the whole thing. Cinna has gone past feathers and wing patterns, creating the mockingjay in full, entirely in gemstones across the bodice.

Her hair has been thrown over her shoulder, the usual braid shot through with a silver ribbon, and a thin circlet sits on her head, little feathers just above the ears. Her elaborate silver sandals have no only the tiniest of heels.

The dress looks almost like something a pre-selected Career might wear to a Reaping. The armour turns it into something uncomfortable. It's exactly like Cinna has suited up a small child for some ancient and epic mythical war, and I'm sure that's exactly what he meant to do.

 _I channel my emotions into my work_ , he said. His protest at the reason we're here seems clear to me. No doubt the Capitol audience will think she's adorable. Effie certainly does, cooing in delight as she pleads with Katniss to twirl for her. She does so with a delighted smile of her own.

"Very nice," Haymitch allows just as the elevator arrives, but he shoots Cinna an unhappy look when Katniss isn't paying attention. Cinna ignores him, nodding at me when he sees his notebook. I wait until Haymitch's back is to us before I pass it to him, and he slips it into a pocket.

As soon as the elevator doors open we can see the stage outside the Training Center, and I break into a cold sweat. Next to me, Katniss is pale, breathing with deliberate steadiness.

"If nothing else, try to remember that you two are supposed to be friends," Haymitch growls at us as we line up behind the other Tributes waiting to take to the stage. "Let's have that be the one thing you don't mess up when you open your mouths." He doesn't wait for a response before stalking off.

"Chin up," Cinna says to Katniss. He points to the platform just off the stage where the other stylists are taking their seats. "I'll be right there."

Portia gives me a brief hug, and Effie bumps both our cheeks with hers, and then there's nothing left but for us to walk onto the stage.

There's an eruption of cheers as the line of Tributes emerges. The balconies around the stage are taken up mostly by Gamemakers and cameramen, and there isn't a single space in the City Circle or surrounding streets that isn't packed with people. It's a sea of garish colours and feverish noise. Back home, those without televisions will be either in a neighbour's home or the square, a silent grey procession watching the giant screen constructed in front of the Justice Building as one might the burial of a distant acquaintance. Not watching isn't an option.

At the top of the steps, my family will be seated next to Katniss' mother and her little sister. Just the thing to make an awful situation worse; my mother silently stewing as she's forced to shake hands with the object of her lifelong jealousy. Worse, having to speak kind words to the child she hates much more than her mother. The Everdeen child who looks nothing like her father.

Or, to hear my mother - and others in the merchant quarter - say it, the child who looks _exactly_ like her father. The very blonde little girl who was born more or less nine months after Morrel Everdeen was nearly killed by a wrathful Peacekeeper who'd reached the end of his rope. The arrest happened right outside the bakery, where he'd just been trading with my father. My idiot father, who visited the Everdeens more than once during Morrel's recovery from the near-fatal whipping.

The bakery will be a dangerous place tonight. Especially if my father is stupid enough to so much as glance at Calendula Everdeen or her daughter any more than he absolutely has to.

The instant we're all seated, Caesar Flickerman dashes onto the stage, waving enthusiastically to the enormous audience. His suit is the same midnight blue as always, covered in tiny lights, but his hair and lips are some kind of seaweed green. He looks like he might be contagious, but the Capitol audience are as thrilled as ever to see him, the tumultuous noise redoubling, rattling my bones.

Once they've calmed down enough for Caesar to be heard, he tells a few jokes before jumping into the interviews. The girl from One struts confidently to centre stage in a short, gauzy pink dress and six-inch heels, drawing as much catcalling and whistling from the audience as applause. Her interview is more raunchy jokes and suggestive double-talk than anything related to the actual Games, but the crowd loves her, and it's hardly the first time a Tribute has bought sponsors with sex. By the time her three minutes are up, I'm sure the interview has done more for her than any training score could.

Her District partner, Abrax, who already seemed the favourite to win according to the talking heads after the scores were announced, isn't quite what people expect from a boy from One. He's polite enough, but keeps his answers short, and is all grim determination. He certainly doesn't lack for confidence, and signs off by telling Caesar he looks forward to speaking to him again soon.

The pair from Two don't do much to stand out. The first thing Caesar wants to know about the girl is her sister, a favourite Victor, but although she easily turns the conversation back to herself, neither she nor the boy who follow her are anything but a typical pair of District Two volunteers, 'honoured' to be here. Well, aren't we all?

The pair from Three are forgettable, other than that the boy is the smallest competitor apart from Katniss, but he stutters through a joke at the average intellect of the Career set which even a couple of the Careers themselves chuckle at, and he gets a little more than the polite applause usually reserved for the walking dead.

The girl from Four shines, all sun-bronzed skin and lean muscle, and gets along well with Caesar, but Senan's interview is a total disaster. There's no avoiding the embarrassing topic of a Career scoring a mere six in training, and his attitude turns from surly to murderous in the time it takes for him to reach Caesar. His applause is less than what was initially offered for either Tribute from Three, and he takes the mockery for what it is. Caesar tries to help him, suggesting that perhaps the boy was trying to keep his potential under wraps. Tributes adopt this tactic often enough, but rarely the boys, and never a Career. Still, around the third time the olive branch is offered, the idiot sees it and takes hold. He isn't quite laughed off the stage, but it's a near thing.

I barely notice the next few Tributes, but as I watch the thing from Six shuffle painfully to centre stage, I can't help but smirk. Caesar makes no mention of his obvious discomfort, but the interview is another let-down, full of one-word responses and a lot of growling.

Then it's Resa's turn, and at this point I'm actually feeling sorry for Caesar Flickerman. Her stylist apparently thought an ankle-length dress would help disguise her new foot, as if people hadn't already seen her make her slow way to the Reaping stage with her crutches, but Resa gathers the dress almost up to her knees as she hobbles forward, and I have to stifle a laugh at the thought of Effie practically pouncing on Katniss when her dress hit her ankle during rehearsal. I think she might actually be exaggerating her limp, and the audience's hands must get tired, because it's a very quiet stage by the time she finally gets to Caesar.

Once her interview finally begins, Resa's false cheer is in full swing, confusing Caesar and the audience no end. When asked about her training score, she openly mocks the Gamemakers, proclaiming it isn't her fault they have no eye for talent, and Caesar sheers off the subject as quickly as he can. Because he has no choice, he asks if she has a plan for the Games themselves. Resa shoots him a positively insane grin, announcing she's going out there to make Hunger Games history, and that she'll definitely be the one to watch.

Once the buzzer sounds, Caesar decides to avoid the long return journey, and helps her back to her seat with haste, and the relief to both himself and his audience is palpable when he gets to move on to her District partner, the handsome, friendly boy who swept an eight in training and has no unpleasant surprises for Caesar or the audience.

Eight, Nine, Ten and Eleven breeze by, and then Caesar is calling Katniss Everdeen forward. The entire City Circle goes insane as she hops out of her seat. "You know, I think one or two of them might like you," Caesar quips when they calm down enough for him to get a word in. Katniss gives a nervous little giggle in response, and I catch her glance off to the side where the stylists are seated. Cinna winks at her, and all her nervousness seems to evaporate.

Caesar launches right in with her astonishing training score. Resa may have joked about making Hunger Games history, but Katniss has already done just that. Before her, the last Tribute to score an eleven was Finnick Odair, and until Katniss, he was the youngest ever to pull that off. "And as we all know, he then went on to become our youngest ever Victor. Do you plan on taking that record away from him too?"

"Well, I doubt he'd even have time to notice," she says with a grin. "His attention always seems to be on his special friends. And I didn't get all dressed up for nothing." She gets a few titters from the audience, and Finnick's smirking face appears under a spotlight, his arm around a skittish Annie Cresta rather than one of his 'special friends' for once.

"And speaking of dressed up, it seems you made quite the impression on your stylist; you look ready for battle right now!" Caesar exclaims. "Did you win over the Gamemakers so easily?"

"No," she says lightly. "That took something special. But sometimes they _do_ have an eye for talent, if you can force them to pay attention."

This brings gales of laughter from the crowd below. Looking up to the Gamemakers' darkened balcony, I can't spot Seneca Crane, but I can imagine him seething with fury. This is the second time he's been the subject of a joke in a single interview set, and one of those insulting him has already done him an injury. Katniss may not know how much he already hates her, but I can't help but be proud of her rubbing his face in it. It's not as if he can kill her twice.

"Oh, come now," Caesar cajoles her. "You have to give us more than that!"

"She most certainly does not!" cries a distressed voice from the balcony, to more laughter.

"We'll talk about it later," Caesar tells Katniss in a stage whisper, then sobers slightly. "Of course, things are slightly different in the arena than in training," he says ominously, "and there is the physical side of things to be considered. You're not our youngest Tribute this year, but you are the smallest, and if one of the larger competitors catches you, well... that must be a concern for you. Do you have a plan for that scenario?"

She pales a little, but her answer is quick and clear. "Simple. I don't let them catch me."

"As simple as that?" Caesar asks with some amusement.

"It has to be," Katniss murmurs, all traces of mirth gone. "I promised my little sister I'd be coming home. I don't break promises."

This brings an adoring, if slightly theatrical, groan of sympathy from the audience.

"Well, I certainly hope you get to keep this one," Caesar assures her. "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's unkept promises, and I'd hate to be a party to one."

The buzzer sounds, and Katniss bows out to the loudest applause of the night so far.

Caesar calls my name, and I march to the front of the stage as steadily as I can manage, hoping the sheen of sweat on my face isn't too visible. I catch some cat calls and whistling among the applause, which doesn't exactly help.

"And now from our smallest Tribute to one of our biggest," Caesar exclaims. "You must be a very popular young man back home."

"We all have our burdens to bear," I respond with a nervous smile.

"I think more of a burden for your mother than for you. She must have to chase the girls off with a broom!"

"Actually, a rolling pin is her weapon of choice, but most people know to be pretty afraid of her even when she's unarmed." Not that many girls have needed to be chased off. Sometimes I think my mother might be the only person who doesn't know about me. Or maybe she just pretends.

Caesar is slightly taken aback at my response, then speaks over the light laughter from below. "Sorry, sorry. For a second there I thought we were talking about _my_ mother.

"Well, you've performed splendidly so far, right from the very beginning. I don't think I've ever seen anyone from District Twelve quite so excited as you to be reaped. Or perhaps you were just running from the rolling pin." I have to force myself to grin at the howls of laughter as I imagine my mother's reaction to being made a joke of in the Capitol. At least they seem to think it's really just a joke.

"Still, a ten in training, making you and your partner the most successful pair ever from outside of the Champion districts," Caesar announces to cheers I think are directed more at Katniss than me. That's what they call the Career districts in the Capitol. The Champion districts. Of course, they never refer to the years of training and grooming, or the pre-selected volunteers. For the Capitol, it's their proximity to their betters that makes all the difference. The positive influence of the Capitol, and Capitol values that results in more orderly, successful Districts and better Tributes.

"And of course, you certainly don't look like you need to be worried about the physical side of the competition," Caesar prompts, interrupting my thoughts.

"It helps," I acknowledge. "I know some people claim size doesn't matter, but there's usually a reason they need to convince themselves of that." Now that I'm talking, I'm afraid that if I stop I might lose my voice, so I keep going over the lascivious hooting of the audience. "On the other hand, I've seen plenty of proof lately that bigger isn't necessarily better, and I think I'd prefer to do things a little differently."

"Excellent!" Caesar cries, delighted. "The direct approach can be entertaining, but we all love a good twist every now and again. The more we see of Tributes using their heads, the better. So you have a few tricks up your sleeve?"

Not really, no. I still have no idea what I'm actually going to do tomorrow. The only thing I know is that it won't be what this lot want me to do.

"I can't go giving you all my secrets," I chide Caesar lightly. "You'll just have to wait and see like everybody else."

"Oh, but I want to know now!" He grouses with an exaggerated pout. "See, this is why these interviews are actually my least favourite part of the Games," he tells the audience. "All I ever get is a tease! Am I the only one?"

Clearly he's not; the audience is in complete agreement with him. Here in the land of instant gratification, they don't like having to wait for anything. Least of all televised mass murder. How do they ever manage to go a whole year between Hunger Games competitions? What do these people do to tide them over between one parade of corpses and the next?

"Well then, how about something you can tell us?" Caesar allows. "Let's say you win this thing, you go home. Any big plans? Gilded rolling pin for Mother, of course, but anything else? Is there someone special back home? Any lucky girls who braved the gauntlet?"

No girls, and no boys either for that matter apart from a few secret moments where nothing much went on. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," I tell him with a sly grin.

"No, I suppose not. Especially when some people are still in a position to fear the rolling pin."

The buzzer sounds through a final round of laughter. Caesar shakes my hand and wishes me luck. If I were to somehow make it home from this mess, I'd likely find myself disowned by the time I got there. Not an entirely unpleasant thought.

All the Tributes rise from their seats for the anthem. The screens around the City Circle are mostly dominated by myself and Katniss, with a few seconds here and there for the Careers. Once I catch a glimpse of Resa, her arms haughtily folded in front of her chest, smirking over the heads of the crowd.

Dinner is a quiet affair once Effie gives up trying to keep the chatter going. The whole interview process seems to have left everyone thoroughly drained. I barely notice any of what I'm eating, fidgeting nervously through the whole meal.

Once we're done eating, we watch the replay of the interviews in the next room. I spot only one edit; Resa's attack on the Gamemaker's inability to spot talent is absent. The cameras frequently switch between the Tributes themselves, their mentors and stylists, the Gamemakers, and the President. Thin and white-haired, our beloved President Snow is decidedly unamused by Resa. Katniss' callback to Resa's joke is made very conspicuous by the absence of the former, and the Gamemakers aren't shown throughout Katniss' entire interview. I have no idea which of them screams at Caesar, but I'm sure it isn't Crane. My interview doesn't seem like much the second time around, but it's not an embarrassment, except for my now legendary mother.

The anthem plays again, and the screen goes dark. An oppressive silence settles on the room. Cinna and Portia excuse themselves after a moment. We'll see them in the morning, but this is our last moment with Effie and Haymitch. Effie, who I still can't decide whether I like or loath, and Haymitch, who I still don't know I can trust.

Effie seems reluctant to leave. She repeatedly congratulates us for our work so far and wishes us luck over and over before Haymitch's glares register with her. Finally she announces, "Thank you both. I can't believe it, but the pair of you have made my last year in the Games a roaring success. They'll be asking for me at all the big parties this year!" Nobody seems to know quite how to respond to that, so it's a relief when she shoots us one last grin and struts out of the room.

"I meant to talk to you about this before," Haymitch says once we're alone. He shoots me a brief, questioning glance, but doesn't wait for any cue from me before continuing. "I'm thinking the best thing either of you can do in terms of alliances is to stick together.

"You can't risk the Cornucopia," he tells Katniss. "And you don't have much hope in the wild if you're not well-supplied," he adds to me. "I don't doubt you'll have some good sponsors, but if you're together, it'll be all the better, and a good haul at the Cornucopia is better still. Between the pair of you, I think one of you can easily win this."

His tone is confident, authoritative. Haymitch is a very good liar when he puts in the effort. Does he really want us teaming up, or is he just hoping self-preservation will drive me to tend to my own needs at the Cornucopia, taking Katniss' fate out of his hands?

"Maybe," Katniss allows, "but without knowing the arena layout, we can't exactly plan on a meeting spot. Even deciding on a direction will be tricky."

"You have exactly one minute in the morning to figure that out. Opening positions are randomised; you might not even see each other, but if you do, just pick a likely direction and point it out. When it starts you head straight there." He leaves that duty with Katniss, which makes sense. Even if the arena isn't her kind of place, her instincts for planning a route would be better than mine.

"You’re on supplies,” he says, turning to me. “Grab the first things you get to and run. Backpacks are never empty, so if you're not going to make it to the weapons, they'll have to be enough. Leave the Careers to thin themselves out and run like hell. Find water. Stay alive."

He doesn't wait for any acknowledgement, just claps us both on the shoulder and walks away.

"Are you okay with this?" I ask once he's gone. Katniss isn't a girl who likes to rely on others, and now she's being asked to flee the Cornucopia and just hope I'll show up with enough supplies for both of us.

She's quiet for a long moment. Finally she asks, "Are you? The Careers and anyone with something to prove will be out to get me as soon as the gong sounds tomorrow. Maybe Seneca Crane, too."

I don't know if she thought of that alone or if she was listening at the door the other night, but it seems like our efforts to keep Katniss in the dark about the particular danger she's in all failed. "You might have a better chance if you stay away from me," she adds in a quavering voice.

Even she thinks I should abandon her.

"I'll get what we need from the Cornucopia," I tell her firmly. "If we can't see each other from our podiums, just head for the thickest cover you see. I'll follow."

She looks me in the eye, considering. Eventually she nods. "See you tomorrow."

She steps forward, gives me a little hug around the middle. Just like on the stage at Reaping, I haul her into the air and crush her to my chest.

"Let me go!" she squeals, giggling breathlessly as she kicks at me.

I set her down with a laugh. "See you tomorrow." There's nothing else to say right now, so we both go to our rooms.

Once I'm alone I order a cup of warm milk. My father always says it's good for sleeping, but I grimace at the first taste and get a hot chocolate instead, setting it on the bedside table as I strip down and clamber under the covers.

So, we have something approaching a plan for tomorrow, even if Haymitch fully expects me to abandon my ally. Once we team up, he'll have no choice. He can't write us both off.

And then? I think of Katniss, of poor doomed Resa, and the tiny, underfed, untrained children who are set to be so much meat for the grinder. I don't think there's anything that can happen in the arena that could motivate me to kill them. I don't think I'll have any such morality issues when it comes to scum like that thing from Six or the Careers.

Maybe I'll get lucky, if that's the word for it. I won't hunt down children. I won't betray Katniss. Even if, by some miracle, we're the last two remaining. If it comes down to me and her, it'll be her. I won't be the Capitol's weapon. I'll play their Games, but they won't make me a pawn. If circumstance makes me the last one standing, so be it. If not, then the best I can hope for is that it's quick.

In the end, I'm not all that different from Haymitch. Our most fervent hope is that fate will take the difficult choices out of our hands.

It's worked for me so far.

* * *

Apologies for the prolonged wait on this. COVID lockdown should have been the perfect time to get lots of work done, but exam prep got in the way, then BoSaS was set to be released, so we waited to see if the updated canon would influence our plans or prompt us to update what we already had written.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Katniss_ **

It isn't quite dawn when the loud, insistent rapping on the door jolts me out of a fitful sleep. Cinna slips inside, and I catch a glimpse of a white uniform before he pushes the door closed.

“It’s time to get up, Katniss,” Cinna tells me. He is holding a white shift draped over one arm and, once I am out of bed, he passes it to me. “You need to put this on.”

Once I’m dressed, he guides me up to the roof, a pair of Peacekeepers marching just a few feet behind us. I wonder how many Tributes are desperate enough to try to run away, and what they do to them if they are. Seconds after we reach the roof, a gleaming hovercraft materialises above us. It doesn’t land on the roof, as I expect it to. Instead, a ladder drops down and, at Cinna’s nod of encouragement, I climb onto it. The instant my hands and feet touch the rungs, a current of some kind seems to freeze me in place, leaving me unable to move a muscle as I am lifted up into the belly of the hovercraft.

I am still frozen in place when a woman in a white coat steps forward, a large syringe in one hand. She lines the needle over the skin on the inside of my forearm. “This is your tracker, Katniss,” she tells me, without looking at me. “Hold still, please, so I can place it.” When she depresses the plunger, the tracker is embedded in my arm, making sure that there will be no way for me to hide from the Gamemakers once I’m in the arena.

Once my tracker is in place, the ladder releases me and drops down to retrieve Cinna. Once he is on board, an Avox girl appears and conducts us to a room where breakfast has been laid out. This will be my last decent meal for a long time, maybe for the rest of my life. I should take full advantage of my last chance to store up some reserve of energy, but after a few bites I can manage no more. Cinna passes me a glass of orange juice and, when I’ve finished that, the Avox steps forward to take the empty glass from me and press a full one into my hand.

I sit by the window, watching the Capitol disappear from my view and the wilderness whizzing by below us. Until the windows suddenly turn black, shutting out the world outside.

“We must be getting close to the arena,” Cinna tells me gently, before I can ask. “They don't want anybody seeing the arena until you're already inside it. It’s also why you can’t put on your clothes for the arena. Even the stylists aren’t allowed to know what you’ll be wearing before we reach the Launch Room.”

“We call it the Stockyard,” I say, before realising that it’s not a good idea to say things like that.

Cinna doesn’t take offence. “That's certainly fitting,” is all he says.

After another ten minutes or so, the hovercraft lands and, when the door opens, two Peacekeepers are waiting to lead us inside. We’re led through a long corridor to a pristine white room with a circular metal plate in one corner, another full table of food and drink against one wall, and a rack of clothes laid out for me. I catch Cinna smiling slightly as he examines the outfit; forest green pants, a short sleeved black shirt and a black jacket.

“The jacket is designed to reflect your body heat, so you can expect some cool nights,” he tells me as passes me the pants and shirt, turning his back as I dress. When I have them on, he takes the jacket from its hanger and helps me into it, zipping it closed before he reaches into his pocket and produces the mockingjay pin Madge gave me, pinning it to the front of my jacket. “I asked Effie to rush this through the review board while we were getting you ready for your interview yesterday. There was some concern about the pin itself being a possible weapon, but they allowed it in the end.”

I'm being thrown into the arena with six Careers who have spent their lives training for the Games and a whole bunch of terrified, untrained nonentities, and the Gamemakers almost kept a pin from me because they don't want anyone to have an unfair advantage. I'd laugh if I wasn't a second from breaking down in tears.

The boots are made of soft leather and fit snugly over skin-tight socks. They’re not all that different from what I would wear in the woods at home, but they are of much better quality than anything we could ever afford. They have a narrow, flexible rubber sole that will be good for running.

Once I’m fully dressed, I move around at Cinna’s instructions, to make sure that everything is comfortable, and when I confirm that everything fits perfectly, he sits me down in a chair and combs out my hair arranging it into a braid over my shoulder, just like my mother did for the Reaping.

“Do you think that you could eat something?” Cinna asks me. When I shake my head, he fills a glass with water and hands it to me. “Try to drink, at least.” I sip the water slowly, holding out my free hand to him. He clasps it in both of his and sits with me while we wait for the call to enter the launch tubes.

When a pleasant female voice is piped into the room, announcing that it’s time to prepare for the launch, I want to cry because it’s too soon, because I’m not ready and because I know that I could be dead in minutes.

I keep a tight hold of Cinna’s hand as I walk over to the launch tube and he doesn’t pull away, even after I step onto the metal plate.

He bends down so that his face is level with mine. “Remember what Haymitch told you. Run and find water. Meet up with Bannock if you can. The rest will follow.” I nod. He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. “And remember this: I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could, I’d bet on you.” It's crazy after all the platitudes and patronising congratulations from Haymitch, Effie and Caesar Flickerman, but I actually believe him. “Good luck, little Mockingjay.”

We stand, hand in hand, until a glass cylinder lowers around me and we’re forced to let go.

I take a deep breath and stand up straight, holding my head high as the cylinder begins to rise. I’m plunged into darkness for about fifteen seconds and then I emerge in the open air. A cool breeze ruffles my hair and I breathe in a scent that is both familiar and alien, comforting and frightening. I stand on one of twenty-four platforms set on a flat grassy plain, ringing the shining gold Cornucopia, but all around us is rocks and hills and trees. My eyes fall on a thick growth of brush within sprinting distance of our starting point, leading up a very green mountain. I breathe a sigh of relief. Most of the trees are tall and thick, perfect for climbing and sleeping in.

The voice of Claudius Templesmith, who has been the announcer of the Hunger Games since before my parents were born, booms all around me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-first Hunger Games begin!”

Sixty seconds. I begin a mental countdown as I attempt to take in the rest of the view, one hand shielding the glare of the sun coming off the golden horn of the Cornucopia. A few yards in front of me, I can see a metal canteen for water, and a loaf of bread just beyond. Backpacks of different shapes and sizes are strewn closer to the Cornucopia, but the real spoils are the weapons. Priority one for the Careers, and for people like me, with no sponsors waiting in the wings, nobody but ourselves to count on, our only chance of survival. If we can't arm ourselves at the Cornucopia, we'll be out there with sticks and stones while they hunt us with swords and spears. That's how they draw us in for the opening massacre, kicking every Hunger Games off with a bang. That's why all the weapons sit in the mouth of the cornucopia itself.

All but one. My breath catches as my eyes fall on a bright blue pack. Propped up against it is a full quiver of silvery arrows. I know the trap as soon as I see it; every other weapon sits in the Cornucopia where they belong, but this one has been deliberately arranged with the unmissably bright backpack, precious seconds closer to my own podium. Irresistible bait, courtesy of the same furious Head Gamemaker who gave me a record-breaking training score. Seneca Crane must be very impatient for my death.

Tearing my eyes from the weapon I'm meant to die for, I begin to scan the podiums arranged around me. I'm looking for Bannock, but the first person I see is Resa. She's down on one knee, and at first I think she's adjusting her new foot as I saw her doing almost constantly through training, but something stops me from moving on. Her pant leg is pulled up, and both hands are on her foot, but she isn't trying to force its cooperation. Her right hand is clamped around the prosthetic right where it attaches to the stump of her leg. Even hunched over and unmoving she's unstable, her left knee on the platform the only thing keeping her from falling while the right shakes uncontrollably.

My eyes move to her other hand, tapping in time against the appendage, in sync with my own mental countdown. Counting down for what? She can't be planning a sprint to the supply pile. She can barely walk on that thing, let alone run. One thing she made clear in her interview; she isn't planning to just lie down and die. I can see Caesar Flickerman's polite puzzlement as he tried to reason out her assertion that she was out to make Hunger Games history.

She looks up, glancing around the arena, and grins when she sees me watching her. And winks.

That's when I get it. I drop to one knee just as she rises from hers. She throws out her right arm, and her plastic foot flies away from her as she cries out, "Here's to Capitol generosity!"

I drop my eyes to my own feet just before hers hits the ground, right in front of the boy from District One. The explosion is louder than I expect, but it's nothing to the three or four that follow it. As far away as I am, and despite being the only one bracing the impact, I feel the heat of the blasts and half expect to be blown right off my platform. The whole world is shaking and burning.

As quickly as it began, it's over. I lift my head, throwing up a hand to keep from inhaling the acrid smoke that stings my eyes. Not a single Tribute is standing. Most are on their knees with hands thrown over their heads. A few are curled tightly up on the floor of their platforms. I hear shouting, screaming. Sobbing. I have no idea who the girl to my right is. Probably not a Career from her plaintive howling, but her name and District elude me.

I look to Resa and find an empty platform. And two more, one on either side. Resa. Did she fall or jump? The boy from One. Probably never knew what hit him. Who else?

_Who cares?_ The countdown. I try to recall how much time was left when Resa opened the Games with a bang. Ten seconds? Less? Any second now. I give my head a shake to stop the ringing in my ears, and spring to my feet, ready to run.

Nothing.

A few of the others climb shakily to their feet, staring around them in confusion. The girl to my right is still curled and sobbing.

One last frantic glance around me, and I take off running. After the first couple of steps I'm more or less confident that I'm not about to be blown to bits, and that I'm the only Tribute moving. A breathless laugh escapes me and I sprint unopposed towards the bounty of the Cornucopia as fast as my legs will carry me.

I'm out of the smoke and ten feet from the cornucopia when I see that the bow was not in fact the only weapon outside the Cornupcopia and scoop up a large, leaf-patterned backpack with a half dozen lethal-looking knives strapped to it, turn, spot the blue backpack a few feet away. I grab the quiver of arrows and stare about me in confusion. There's no bow.

The knives. This was the second part of the trap. I was meant to go straight for the arrows only to find no way of firing them, and whoever got the pack with the knives would have an easy target. The knives were the only _real_ weapon left outside the Cornucopia, meant to kill me while I stood holding a quiver and no bow. If not for Resa, I'd already be standing here looking stupid while someone aimed a blade at my back.

There's still time. The arena's coming to life, but slowly. I run into the Cornucopia, pulling a knife, ready to throw or fight as I need, but most of those within striking distance are the smaller children, grabbing what they can carry and running. I don't see Bannock or any of the Careers.

All around me, a sea of backpacks, axes, swords and spears. A vest so covered with knives I can't imagine moving at any kind of speed with that weight. A second quiver of arrows, which I don't bother with. They look be twins with the ones I already have plenty of, and none of them are going to do me any good without a bow to shoot them. An enormous double-bladed axe, the likes of which I never saw in the training centre or in previous Games, taller than me and broader than Bannock. No bows. Not one. Why on earth are there two full quivers and not a single bow?

A few feet to my left, the boy from District Nine appears and frantically examines the weapons, apparently at a complete loss as to what's expected of him. He's barely taller than me, just as skinny, and hardly seems to realise I'm standing there. The hand holding the knife twitches. I _do_ know what's expected of me, from Haymitch and potential sponsors, if not from a furious head Gamemaker whose Games have turned to disaster before they've even begun.

It'll be quick, I tell myself. Put him out of his misery.

"Katniss!"

I spin, zeroing in on the voice, and immediately drop the knife to catch the bow Bannock has thrown at me. The instant it's in my hands, I pull and nock an arrow, and see his eyes widen as I draw.

"Down!" I yell, and fire almost before the word passes my lips. It's a good thing he moves so quickly, because both bow and arrow are made for someone bigger than me. The bow is a stiff draw, the arrow far too long, and my resulting aim is atrocious, much lower than I’d planned when it passes through the space he occupied only an instant later.

It's sheer luck that I more or less hit my target; the boy from District Seven, charging at Bannock’s back with an axe plucked from a nearby rack. Wherever Bannock found the bow, it's all he picked up. He never armed himself, and the boy from Seven is very good with an axe, having beaten his instructors more than once in training. Outside of Bannock, the Careers, and me, he pulled the highest score. An eight.

His skill and his score do nothing to protect him. The arrow takes him in the gut, and if he makes a sound as he doubles over, I don't hear it. Bannock, I hear. He gives a roar as the axe carves a gash in his upper leg, and then the weapon is in his hands.

He grabs the boy by the shoulder, throws him over on his back, and raises the suddenly flimsy-looking weapon above his head, grasping the handle with both massive hands. His rage at Haymitch is nothing to the bellow that escapes him as he brings the axe down with the force of a sledgehammer. His massive form obscures my view of his victim. But if I live long enough to sleep, I know I'll hear that sound in my nightmares.

Bannock rips the half-moon blade, gleaming steel now red and dripping, with a piece of torn cloth hanging off it. He jumps to his feet, and his bloody leg seems steady enough, but a palpable fury rolls off him in waves and I leap back, my hand moving to the quiver again. No bear or dog pack has ever held a candle to the terror I feel at the sight of the baker's son.

He turns to me, face white with rage. My fingers grasp an arrow. I can't draw.

I never expected to have a chance in the Hunger Games, but this isn't how I thought it would end. Frozen with terror, brutalised by my own District partner in the first minute. The seemingly gentle giant they presented as if he were my bodyguard. The boy whose brother saved my family from starvation. Bannock, who has conducted himself as my over-protective big brother since the moment our journey began.

_Look away, Prim. Don't watch. Please, Gale. Please don't let them starve._

"What are you still DOING here?" he roars at me. "RUN!"

My legs feel like jelly, but they move at his command, and I'm leaping right over a pair of legs that belong to the boy from District Nine. Somehow I register that he's settled on short sword as a weapon, but he's on his butt, backed against an otherwise full rack, staring, horror-struck, at Bannock.

I hope for his sake he doesn't stare too long.

I run until I hit the brush before stopping to sort my supplies. There's no way to wear the backpack and quiver simultaneously without the quiver getting in the way, so I strap it to the side of the pack itself, securing it tightly to ensure it won't go missing while I'm running, then shoulder the pack and make sure I can reach back to grab an arrow.

Before setting off again, I take a moment to survey the scene at the Cornucopia. The Careers, minus the boy from One, have finally joined the fray. The boy from District Two has taken the enormous axe, but as he takes his first swing at his counterpart from Six, the other boy gets his hands on the haft, wrenches it away, and splits him in two.

Upon seeing her district partner so quickly and gruesomely dispatched, the girl from Two flings what looks like a short sword at his killer. He knocks it away with the axe, but then takes in the other two Career girls closing on him and decides he doesn't like his odds of being able to take them all out before one of them gets him. He hefts the giant axe and runs. Rather than follow, the girls turn and march to the Cornucopia as one.

Bannock is leaving the fray with only the blue backpack and the axe he took from his first kill, slowed only briefly by Senan. This fight is over just as quickly as the other, with Bannock leaving the scene as quickly as his injured leg will allow while Senan is left hunched over on his hands and knees. Two minutes in, and it looks like all the Career boys are dead, but no. Senan is back on his feet, roaring and swearing with far too much energy for a dying boy. Apparently Bannock was more concerned with escape than his kill count, likely in a hurry to do something about his leg. That injury made an alliance too big a risk, but I can't help but hope he has what he needs in that pack - and that if he dies before I do, it isn't my doing.

There's no reason for me to still be here. Bannock has fled in one direction, the boy from Six in another. Resa's bombing has thrown the opening into complete chaos. Where there should be a field full of desperate children competing for what little they can get their hands, all that remains are the three Career girls picking over the remaining supplies, the one girl I can't place still lying on her platform, oblivious to the world as she continues to sob, and Senan. Senan, who even from this distance is clearly staring right at me.

I turn and run in the opposite direction, desperate to put as much distance as possible between Senan and me as I can, knowing that no other tribute is going to draw his focus away from me.

I am the one he has to kill if he's to gain any kind of ground with sponsors and prove he isn't a complete failure. I am the little girl who outshone him in training. The girl adored by the same audience that treated him as contemptuously as any of his sort have ever been treated.

Seneca Crane isn't the only one holding a grudge.

His legs are much longer than mine and he has spent his life being well-fed and trained, but District 4 is the fishing district. I doubt that Senan ever set foot in a forest before we entered the arena, much less climbed a mountain. I've been doing this since I was five. I may not be as skilled in the woods as my father, but I can lose Senan easily enough. I don't even need to look back to know when he's hit the brush; he moves with all the grace of a drunk bear.

The distance between us stretches as I run, weaving through trees, rocks and brambles.

I don’t turn when I hear him cry out as he trips over something in his path and falls heavily to the ground but when I don't hear him clamber to his feet to continue his pursuit straight away, I know that he must have hurt himself, at least enough to slow him down a little.

I keep running as fast as I can, melting into the forest around me and disappearing from his sight.

After another quarter of an hour or so, my lungs are burning and my throat is dry when I finally stop running to catch my breath and get my bearings.

I stand still for a few minutes, listening intently for any sound of Senan’s pursuit. There's nothing to hear. He has either taken a wrong turn in his attempt to pursue me or it finally occurred to him that leaving the Cornucopia empty-handed might not have been a smart move.

I allow myself a few minutes to rest, which gives me a chance to take a proper look at my surroundings.

The foliage isn't quite as dense as the woods around Twelve, but most of the trees and plants are familiar from hunting, a few others from training. The trees around me soar more than a hundred feet high, with branches sturdy enough that I should be able to get most of the way up them, or even find a place to sleep well out of reach of any Tributes.

The booming of cannon fire begins just as I make to set off again, confirming that the action at Cornucopia is over. They always wait until they can get in there and reclaim the bodies.

I count ten shots.

Ten dead already. Fourteen left to play.

Thirteen who need to die.

_Find water,_ I tell myself. The uphill run has left my legs and chest burning, my throat parched.

Haymitch didn’t give me much advice, and already the planned alliance has disintegrated while I've gone against his explicit instructions – though I think that under the circumstances, even Haymitch would agree that going into the melee was the right decision. Now it's time to get back on track. I need water, and quickly. The sprint uphill had a heavy toll.

I keep my eyes peeled for a particularly green patch of vegetation, mud or an animal that might lead me to a place where it drinks, and listen intently for any sounds of a stream as I walk. I’m sure that there must be water to be found in the arena, if only because the people in the Capitol would complain if the tributes died of dehydration before they could kill one another. It’s just a question of finding it.

There are several different types of berries growing on bushes throughout the forest. The first ones I encounter are blood red and unfamiliar to me; I don’t even touch them. Soon after I come across some blueberries sparsely dotted over a bush. There's barely more than a handful to scrape together, but they help a little with the thirst.

The next blueberry bush I see is laden with them and it’s not until I reach out to pick one that I see that the skin is slightly darker and shinier than blueberries should be. I recognise these too. They were among the first thing my father made absolutely certain I could identify.

_“Not these, Katniss,”_ he told me, after he pointed out the distinctive markings to identify them. _“Never these. They’re nightlock. You’ll be dead before they reach your stomach.”_

I am about to move on when an idea begins to take shape in my head. If I want to leave this arena alive, I'm going to have to get creative. And if my bow is as unsuitable for someone my size as I suspect, I'll need other weapons. The idea is a distasteful one, but the idea of not going home is much worse. Gale and the baker both promised not to let them starve, but they have their own families to feed. Even with both of us hunting, there are times when Gale and I don't do well enough to avoid a hungry night here and there, and the baker has his own problems. I doubt the witch would care for him giving away good food for a Seam brat. If Prim is going to be okay, it's up to me.

I take care to be especially gentle as I pick a large handful of the berries, not wanting any of them to burst and get juice on my hands. The way my father spoke of them, I worry that even that might be dangerous. I wrap them in a large, glossy leaf and stow them in one of the pockets in my jacket before I move on to continue my search for a source of water.

I estimate that I’ve been in the arena about three hours or so when I catch the faint sound of dripping water. I breathe a sigh of relief. My lips were already starting to crack in this heat.

I find a small pool fed by a trickling stream and drop down beside it, shrugging off my backpack and propping the bow against a rock.

Inside the backpack, I find a two-litre water bottle and a bottle of iodine so, before I look at anything else, I fill the water bottle from the pool and add the required number of drops of iodine to purify it. I need to wait half an hour before it is safe to drink, so I continue my inventory. There’s a thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heat, a length of rope, a small coil of wire, a box of wooden matches, an extra pair of socks, a first aid kit, several packets of dried fruit and two packs each of crackers and dried beef strips. The sight of the food makes me hungry, despite my days of gorging in the Capitol, but I know that I should only dip into these precious supplies as a last resort.

I move on to the weapons. The bow is made of wood, and more like my own from home than any of the metal or plastic ones in the Training Centre, but of much better quality than anything even my father could have made with the limitations of working in secret in the woods. It's bigger than I'm used to, but not so much that I can't use it. It’s a heavy draw, but I expected that after the bows in the Training Center. I take one of the arrows from the quiver and study it for a moment. These are the real problem. They're well-crafted, if a little flashy; bright, unfamiliar feathers and gleaming silvery shafts ending in broad hunting heads. They're also far too long for a reliable aim.

I grab one of the knives strapped to my backpack and scratch away at one of the arrows. Underneath the silvery paint they're made of wood. I grin. Seneca Crane's attempt to kill me has provided an advantage nobody could have predicted. A chance to show the sponsors that I can adapt, and make what I have work for me.

I look over the other knives. Altogether I have five short, well balanced throwing knives - I grimace a little, remembering the sixth I dropped when Bannock threw me the bow - and one longer one, with a thick handle and a blade that's serrated on one side. Just what I need.

Also strapped to the pack is a leather sheath for the throwing knives, which I fasten to my belt. I’ve done better in terms of weapons than I ever dared to hope.

Early as it is, I decide to settle down here. I have cover in all directions, a source of water and work that can't wait until later. After all, who knows if there'll be a later?

I tie my jacket around my waist, and repack my supplies just in case I need to bolt, keeping only my weapons, the water bottle and the coil of wire on hand. The wire is thin enough to cut with the throwing knives but still strong enough for snares, and long enough to make three of them.

Over the course of the next hour or so, I set and conceal the simple snares in likely spots and drain my bottle of water, then make my way back to the pool to refill the bottle. While the iodine works on the second bottle I build a fire, but I don't light it. I also put together a nice pile of green, leafy wood, which I keep on its own for now. I've already picked my perch for the night; a tall, thick tree near the fire site. Close though it is, it'll provide the cover I need if anyone happens along, and I should be able to hear them coming and get out of sight quickly enough.

When I head back to the snares, I'm happy to find a nice fat rabbit already caught in one. Gale wouldn't be so happy with me; the snare caught the animal but didn't kill it. I can imagine him shaking his head at my shoddy construction.

I grab the struggling rabbit and finish him off with a quick squeeze of the neck. There's a quick series of small popping sounds, and it stops kicking. I clean and gut the animal before looking up at the sky to estimate how long I have before nightfall. You can never be too sure in the arena, as the Gamemakers can turn day into night at a whim, but they rarely bother to mess around like that in the first few days. Judging by the position of the sun, I should still have at least a few hours.

A couple of slender branches from the green pile will do for spits. I get the fire lit, pulling some of the fuel off at the last minute and double checking the sky above until I'm happy there's as little smoke as I could hope for. That shouldn't bring any uninvited guests anytime soon.

I separate the rabbit into parts, grimacing a little at the waste; back home, only the guts would be left behind, and those because Rooba, the butcher back in District Twelve, says rabbit sausage isn't worth the effort for the few customers who'll actually buy it. Here I've already discarded the pelt and head, and of the organs I keep only the liver, which I cut into bite-size chunks. Rooba sometimes uses rabbit heads for stock, and if not they can be crushed up for pigs or sometimes hens, along with the lungs and ears. The heart and kidneys go too; I'm not likely to be baking any pies in the arena. I leave all the discarded parts a little distance from where I've set up the fire, in case it attracts worse attention than small scavengers. I haven't seen anything other than the rabbit and some birds, but this is the Hunger Games. Normal isn't the norm.

I spit the meat and put all but one leg over the low fire. This last leg I stuff with nightlock. I have a brief moment of panic when some of the berries explode, covering my fingers in their fatal juices, but nothing happens. Once I've calmed down I smear the juice over the surface of the rabbit leg, and rinse my hands in the runoff from the pool.

While the untainted rabbit slowly cooks I get to work on the arrows. I have eleven, having left one in the boy from Seven. Grabbing the first, I hold the feathered end of the shaft against my chest, stretching out my arms and take note of where the tips of my fingers meet, a good five inches from the tip of the head.

Scratching a mark in the paint, I grab the serrated knife, lay the arrow across my folded legs, and start sawing slowly and carefully at my mark. Once I get through, the broadhead and excess wood falling away, I examine what's left of the shaft, making sure I haven't damaged it, before I start whittling away at the tip, sharpening it to a fine point.

I repeat the process with the others, stopping every now and again to be sure the woods around me are still quiet. It's slow, tiresome work, and my impatience costs me one more arrow along the way. Sawing too quickly results in a crack the length of my hand. Grumbling, I snap the now-useless arrow in half and discard it, before pulling the well-done rabbit off the fire. After that I work more slowly than ever. At some point the sun hits a break in the trees, and by the time I'm done my t-shirt is plastered to my skin. I drain the last of my second bottle of water and refill it.

The rabbit has cooled quite a bit by the time I'm pulling it off the spit, but it's delicious, and the long day has left me ravenous. Before I know it, I've devoured both meaty hind legs and a bit of the loin. Because meat alone isn't the healthiest way to go, I open up a pack of both the crackers and dried fruit, forcing down a little of each.

I'm a little disgusted with my gluttony, yet oddly happy about it too. Before my father was killed, there might have been a couple of lucky days in a year when we ended our days having eaten too much. My mother would admonish us while herself eating more than her fill, and father would laugh, because how often did anyone in the Seam ever have an abundance of food?

Other than the days in the Capitol, this is the first time since before his death, and this feels better than stuffing myself with fancy Capitol fare. It's amazing how far one little rabbit can go when there are no traders to haggle with, and no other hungry mouths counting on me.

I could happily live out here forever if there weren't so many people trying to kill me.

Once the food has settled a little, I grab my bow and a few arrows. Spying a knot in a tree just over twenty paces away, I leave some of the arrows stuck in the ground and nock the remaining one. I draw steadily while inhaling, satisfied that the extra effort required on the string doesn't make me unsteady. The length of the arrow is perfect, the tip coming right back to the rest, and the instant it gets there I release the string along with my breath, then repeat the process with the three other arrows in front of me. When the last shot hits its target I'm treated to the sound of splitting wood, and snarl in response.

Stomping to the tree, I find two arrows touching, and two destroyed; the one that got hit dead on and the one that hit it. Even firing repeatedly at the same spot, the odds of that actually happening are tiny, and in my case it's a very unlucky fluke. In less than a day, I've lost or broken four arrows, and now I'm down to eight. Working the other two carefully from the tree trunk, I decide that's enough showing off. If anybody's watching, they know I can hunt, they know I can shoot, and they know I can make whatever I have work for me.

Now I have only one more thing to show them. And for that, I need someone to find me.

Throwing just enough wood on the fire to keep it from dying, I open the second packs of dried fruit and both packs of beef strips. Stuffing all the fruit in one pack and all the beef in another, I use the empty packs for the remaining rabbit, leaving the poisoned leg by the fire.

Just as I’m closing up the pack, something catches my eye, and I look up at the column of smoke rising above the trees. Too big to be anyone’s campfire, leaving only one possibility. The Cornucopia is burning. The Careers, lacking the numbers to guard it, or someone else helping themselves and then making sure nobody else can? Either way, it’s bad news for the surviving Careers. If there’s one thing they’re always bad at, it’s surviving without a readymade bounty. Even sponsor gifts can’t begin to compete with the Cornucopia, and after that opening, even they can’t count on having many sponsors. I allow myself a small smile - I may well be the only Tribute out here with any ability to live off the land.

Picking up the severed ends of my arrows, I examine them, considering. Gale and I once asked the local blacksmith if he'd be able to make us something like these once; arrowheads for taking down the bigger, more dangerous denizens of our woods if even if the shot wasn't perfect. A wild dog with a sharp stick jutting out of his flesh can still be a threat, and a deer stuck with the same arrow might be more than capable of running away. Add to this the fact that Gale isn't quite the shot I am, invariably aiming for the larger body than the head, a broadhead might be meat-ruining overkill on a rabbit or a squirrel, but just what you need to save your life or bag a bigger prize.

The blacksmith had known my father; he had traded with him and seemed to like him. Gale and I, on the other hand, were just a couple of Seam brats who were going to upset an upstanding merchant's cosy relationship with the Peacekeepers, to whom he immediately threatened to report us.

Refusing to make something so risky was one thing, and we knew we'd been asking a lot. Threatening us with Peacekeepers was another thing altogether. Now that Gale and I have made our reputations, we don't trade with the blacksmith. If he wants meat, he has to go through Rooba, and her prices aren't nearly as low as buying direct from the source.

It seems such a waste to have finally gotten such excellent arrowheads and just throw them away. Still firmly attached to a few inches of the shafts, they could be useful for throwing. Taking one in my right hand, I twirl it experimentally, and flick it at a nearby tree. It's too light to get the kind of force behind it as I would with a knife, but it does stick. I figure they should come in handy, so I stick six of them - as many as will fit - in a pocket at the front of my backpack.

My work seems to have taken longer than I expected. I glance up at the rapidly setting sun; night will have properly fallen within the hour, and already the temperature is dropping sharply. Donning my jacket and backpack, I throw more fuel on the fire, and add most of the green stuff, instantly sending up a thick column of smoke for anyone nearby to zero in on just before dark. With that, I climb into my perch.

Hanging my backpack just within reach, I hold on to the bow and a single arrow, checking that I have as clear a view around me and above as the woods will allow, and can remain unseen myself. If nobody takes the bait, this spot will do me well enough for the night.

I pay close attention to the sounds of the woods around me. The rustling of unseen animals below gets louder, and soon the prominent hooting of owls picks up, one of them startling me when his voice comes from the very tree I'm sitting in. I glance up and can just about make him out among the branches and leaves in the darkening sky; an indistinct shape until he spreads his wings, hooting again in what I think is displeasure at my being in his tree. He takes to the sky and I relax, satisfied that it was just an ordinary owl. But there's something unsettling about all this ordinariness. As the temperature drops, I'm curled in on myself and shivering, not wanting to unroll the sleeping bag. If someone does follow my fire and something goes wrong, I may need to leave in a hurry.

As soon as full dark descends, the anthem begins.

I look to the sky as the seal of Panem appears above me, projected across the sky as if on an unseen screen. It illuminates the forest in a faint, eerie glow. The anthem fades out and the sky goes dark again for a moment before they begin to show the faces of the dead. Back home the viewers will be subjected to having to watch each grisly death all over again, but as Resa would say, in the interest of 'fairness' we get only a headshot and a district number.

The girls from Districts 1 and District 2 are still alive. Still, I’m sure that the deaths of both boys in the opening minutes of the Games will have been almost as big a shock to the gamblers as Resa and the mines. It's a rare Games that doesn't see all the Careers survive the first day. I can't recall ever seeing two Careers killed in the opening melee.

The boy from District 5 is next, which means that Senan is still out there and all of the Career girls made it. Then the girl from 6. The boy from 7 - I suppress a shudder at the memory. They only ever credit one Tribute with a kill, but although it was Bannock who finished him off, I made it happen. _How different can it be?_ Not very different at all, I tell myself, but my stomach suddenly disagrees.

Resa. Hunger Games history indeed. The boy from 8. The girl from 9. Both tributes from 10.

The Capitol seal reappears with a musical flourish, hovers in the air for a few seconds, and then fades away.

Ten dead, and neither my closest ally or my most bitter rival enemy among them.

As I clamber back down to earth to feed the fire for the last time and place the poisoned rabbit over it, I try to decide whether or not I'm glad Bannock is still alive. The simple fact is that he could be gravely injured with no way to treat himself, and even if he isn't, the longer he lasts the more likely it is we'll be faced with having to fight each other. In fact, I don't doubt for a second Crane will find a way to force a confrontation.

Back in the tree, I watch the flames pick up. If someone doesn't come along quickly enough, they might not want to even taste that rabbit leg. Pretty soon I'm starting to hate the fire, for the mere fact that I'm not sitting next to it, or curled up in my nice thick sleeping bag, rather than sitting here in the open, shivering and watching my breath freeze. My fingers on the bow are numb, and when I remember the extra pair of socks I all but dive into the backpack to retrieve them. Finally I decide to count to one thousand. If nobody arrives by then, I'll put out the fire and get into my sleeping bag.

I'm barely to one hundred when I hear the pounding of feet from the west, rather than the south like I came from, and assumed others would. I know instantly it isn't Senan. This isn't just a clumsy oaf stumbling around blindly. Somebody's running for their life.

They're not running long. A trio of flashlight beams split the darkness, and the woods are suddenly alive with noise as more heavy footfalls join the runner. They can't be more than a hundred feet away but the thin flashlight beams don't help make much sense of the confusion through the brush. There's a brief scuffle, one loud girl swearing, then an ear-piercing, agonised shriek.

The scream is cut off sharply, and the swearing girl from before is back, still going strong. I hear other girls, laughing and cheering. There's some conversation I can't make out, and then the voices suddenly cut off. Either by the thickness of the trees or their focus on the chase, they're only now seeing my fire.

The flashlights vanish, and they pick their slow, quiet way towards the fire - towards me - doing well enough that I don't hear them until they're maybe twenty feet away. As quietly as I can, barely daring to breathe, I remove the gloves and nock an arrow, pointing it towards the sounds. They're almost directly below me when they stop.

"I don't think it's hers," someone declares in a whisper I can barely make out above the pounding of blood in my ears.

"You're a genius," comes the sour reply. The girl from Four, I think, and the same one who was swearing before. "A nice warm fire, and you don't _think_ it belongs to the girl we found shivering under a bush?"

A third voice cuts off the retort. Dazzle, the girl from One. "Trap. Maybe whoever set it is still here."

An owl soaring overhead gives a hunting hoot, and I pray they can't see me any more than I can see them. If this comes to a fight, I'll be left fumbling for arrows with frozen hands while they climb up after me.

"No," the girl from Four declares. A flashlight beam falls on the rabbit leg. "They're gone. And unless you're hungry for poison, we should go too."

"If it's her, I'd bet she's still here," Dazzle declares. "Senan said she left the melee with a bow. Maybe that's what she showed the Gamemakers.

"All the more reason not to hang around," says the first voice, who must be Laurel. "My sister's a crack shot with a bow, and she only got an eight in training. If this girl's good enough for an eleven, she's good enough to pick us off in the dark if she hears us."

She's right; I probably could if fingers weren't frozen stiff, if fear and impending frostbite didn't have me shivering so badly. It's not likely I'll get more than one shot off. But maybe one is all I need. Kill one, send the others fleeing in terror. An archer stalking and killing in near-total darkness. Even if they come back after the initial panic, they'll never spot me without switching on their flashlights, which will make my job much easier than theirs.

I home in on the direction of Dazzle's voice, take a couple of quick breaths to steady myself, and draw on the third, slower breath.

**_Boom!_ **

I'd forgotten about the cannon. I start at the explosion, and my fingers slip off the string.

Dazzle lets out a startled cry. "What was that?!"

"A cannon," drawls Four, stretching out each syllable.

"No," Dazzle insists, her voice rising. "I felt something fly right past my face. She's shooting at us!'

"Then stop telling her where we are," Laurel hisses. "Let's just shut up and get out of here. We'll look for her in the morning."

"Right," Four agrees. "Let's see if we can find some shelter and get some sleep."

"Somewhere far from here," Dazzle puts in, bringing a derisive snort from Four.

The sound of their movements recede with surprising quickness for three girls picking their way through dark woods on a cloudy night. I keep watching in the direction they went for their flashlight beams to reappear; they're a good three hundred feet away when they do.

I fall back against the trunk of the tree, cursing. If I hadn't confirmed their suspicions of my being nearby, I might have just put the fire out and stayed here for the night. Now they'll be coming back for me at first light.

That damn cannon put me out of a safe perch for the night, and I can't help but wonder if it was deliberate; another one of Seneca Crane's dirty tricks. If the Careers had pulled out their flashlights they might have spotted me right away. A thrown weapon or a rock to knock me out of my tree, and soon afterwards, another cannon.

This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to fight the Gamemakers and the other Tributes at the same time? Furious, I reach out, grasping for by backpack and yanking it off the branch. Throwing it over my shoulders, I turn to climb down. And freeze. Because in the middle of the clearing, right next to my fire, grasping a spitted rabbit leg and staring right at me, is Senan.

I stare right back, holding my breath. The girls couldn't see me and I couldn't see them, closer together in the same darkness. There's no way a lightblind Senan can see me. Nor can there be any doubt he heard me.

He twirls the spit in his hands, laughing. "Is this what you showed the Gamemakers? That you're tough enough to shoot an adorable little bunny? Or was it your cooking skills?" He sniffs at the rabbit, groaning dramatically.

His eyes rove over the high points in the trees immediately next to mine. He may not know exactly where I am, but he's got a pretty good idea. I breathe on my frozen fingers and flex them. He takes a few slow steps towards me as I reach back and draw another arrow. Not a chance of missing this shot, unless Seneca Crane is a button push away from having lightning strike my tree.

"Tell you what," Senan announces, still coming at me, still trying to pick me out of the darkness. "Since you were nice enough to make a snack, I'll go easy. One good scream, and then it'll be all over."

I nock the arrow. Draw.

He lifts the rabbit and sinks his teeth in, tearing away a chunk of flesh.

I lower the bow, replace the arrow in my quiver and start to climb down.

I’ve never actually seen what nightlock does to a living thing. He continues walking slowly my way, chewing once, twice, then stops. He’s directly beneath me now. I pause in my climb, just able to make him out at this distance. I can see only his outline as he leans against the tree and gives his chest a thump, trying to swallow. He repeats the action, and I hear an attempt at a cough, but he can’t manage it, and falls backwards, his hands clutching at his throat as his legs go out from under him.

There aren’t any choked breaths; the poison is that powerful, completely closing off his throat. The only sounds are his frantic scrambling as if he expects to find some lifeline in the grass around him. He throws his head back, his struggles ceasing just long enough for me to think it’s over. Then he twists, unable to rise but clawing at the tree with renewed vigour. It takes me a second to realise from his odd angle that he’s looking directly at me.

I can’t see his eyes, but I can imagine the hate there. The rage. I wonder through my own terror if he has the sense for fear.

His attempts to reach out and grab me grow feeble. There’s another beat of dead silence. The shadowy claws of his hands go limp, and he slumps sideways, his body twisted at an odd angle, still staring up at me.

I release a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. There’s a loud crack from the fire, making me jump. I couldn’t hear it at all; transfixed as I was on Senan’s death throes. I plop down on a branch about halfway down my head resting against the cool wood.

I allow myself a minute to stop shaking, or at least to be sure that I'm only shaking because of the cold. The Gamemakers will be waiting for me to leave before they can announce his death and collect the corpse. There's no rule that says I _have_ to leave, but even if the girls weren't going to be coming back in the morning, I could never sleep while the body of a boy I killed glared up at me through the night. And Crane might take my loitering as another snub and send out some new threat to drive me off or do away with me.

Shimmying down the trunk of the tree, I hop backwards when I'm just a few feet off the ground to avoid stepping on him. I planned on just leaving, but then I spot the backpack. He went back to the Cornucopia before the girls burned it, and took the time to tell them about my bow. Grimacing, I approach the twisted shape of the dead boy.

His eyes are wide open, staring up at the night sky, and he is still clutching the remains of the rabbit in a greasy hand. He looks a little younger now, and thought there's no resemblance, I can't help but think that he's no older than Gale.

I have to roll him onto his stomach to take his backpack from him. There isn't much in it; a pack of crackers, a half-eaten pack of dried fruit, an empty water bottle half the size of mine and a bottle of iodine. Why bother going back if this was all he was going to take? Strapped to the side of the pack are three odd-looking spears. He was from Four; do they use spears like this for fishing? Either way, he didn't even bother to draw when he knew I was right in front of him. I roll my eyes at the arrogance. It's a miracle this idiot even lived long enough to throw his life away for the Capitol at all.

I transfer the supplies to my backpack, having no use for the second pack. Looking over the pack itself and Senan’s wealth of supplies, I realise this must by what took Senan so long to catch up with me; he may not have been very bright, but at least he had the sense to go back and stock up. Maybe it was him who burned the Cornucopia in the end.

Fire and explosions certainly seem to be theme of the day, I reason, so why not one more?

Walking to the fire, I hold the empty pack over the flames until it catches, then fling it into a bush at the foot of a nearby tree. The bush starts to burn almost immediately.

The fire burns naturally for a few seconds, and then out of nowhere the flames start rocketing up the trees. Even from this distance I can feel the uncomfortable heat. Silently cursing Crane and the Capitol in terms that would make even Gale blush, I turn and flee the Gamemaker-assisted inferno.

Over the roar of the flames, I never hear a cannon fire for my first victim.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Katniss_ **

I awake with a pounding head and stinging eyes, and if not for the length of rope securing both me and the sleeping bag to my perch, it would be quite the trip to the ground from this high up. It takes me a minute to remember where I am and figure out why I'm so dizzy and sore. Though I stayed awake long enough to be sure my Gamemaker-fueled fire was sticking to the high ground, the smoke has settled all around the mountainside, no doubt with a little help. If it's even smoke; it could well be a creation of the Gamemakers. I have a feeling that any natural smoke would either have dissipated or drifted off by now, whereas this choking vapour clings to the arena floor, seeming to clear only a few feet above my head.

Head spinning and limbs stiff, it takes much longer than it should to get my pack put back together and slung over my shoulders. Climbing back down to earth is another surprising challenge, and I stumble at the last, throwing out a hand to stop from going flat on my face. My stomach roils, threatening to bring back up last night’s rabbit.

Then the mere thought of _rabbit_ brings back Senan’s bloated face and bulging eyes, and a second later my I am indeed getting a second look at my dinner from the previous night. My throat is scorched and dry, and I fall away, wheezing, and collapse onto my butt. Fumbling for the water bottle strapped to my pack, I swish a mouthful around before spitting it out and taking a big gulp. A minute with my head between my knees struggling to breathe brings no relief, and I take another gulp of water before I secure the bottle and clamber to my feet.

Eager to get out of the sickening smog as soon as possible, I start walking in what I'm reasonably sure is the direction of the Cornucopia, thinking on the events of the previous night. That the Gamemakers took control of my fire is beyond question. No natural blaze could have spread so quickly or in such a uniform pattern. What's strange is that the fire itself never came after me; instead all I get is this smoke, which could well be dangerous by itself - certainly the exposure while I slept has had its ill effects - but isn't quite the definitive action I expected from Crane. From what I heard Haymitch tell the others while I eavesdropped on them after my training score was announced, Crane likes having his work known, and his attempts on me haven't exactly been subtle so far. He's used what he meant as a dud weapon to trap me at the Cornucopia, and even went so far as to directly arm a Tribute who had it in for me.

So, why the smoke? It was thoughts of Seneca Crane that kept me awake, warily watching the fire to be certain it wasn't going to come roaring down the mountain at me. The only thing I can think of now is that I could be closer to the Career girls than I thought. Last night I was certain they'd flee the woods altogether, but it's possible that like me they stopped once they felt relatively safe, and opted for cover rather than sleeping in the open. If so, they could still be nearby. The Capitol audience doesn't want a repeat of the Annie Cresta debacle. The Hunger Games is about children murdering each other, not being picked off by Gamemaker traps.

I can't see very much further ahead in this pall than I could in the dark, and the more I walk the more the world spins, but I nock an arrow and walk ready to draw.

It takes a little less than half an hour to reach fresh air, and the relief is instantaneous. The stinging ceases and my mind clears, and if there's a sour note it's that once I can finally see the sky I realise it's well past midday. I groan at my foolishness; sleeping in the open would have been safer. It's only once I'm out of the smoke that it occurs to me how lucky I was to wake at all. I might easily have choked to death in my sleep.

I shake off the sour thoughts. Nobody found me in my unnatural slumber, I did wake, and now that I'm in the clear, I imagine I feel a good deal more refreshed after a night in the wilderness than most Tributes.

The side of the mountain I've come down leads into a rocky valley with sheer walls to the left and right. great for visibility, terrible for cover. On such uneven terrain line of sight will be best on the high points, but there's very little greenery other than the low grass, and the clothes they've got us in won't do much to hide anyone against this background. Still, this can work to my advantage; as far as I know I've got the only long-range weapon in the arena, and should have far less to fear when it comes to being seen.

I chug a little water and force myself to eat the last rabbit leg and a little dried fruit before I set off, reminding myself to keep an eye out for another stream. There's no telling when all the sources can suddenly dry up, if only to drive Tributes together.

Once underway again I go back over the first day of the Games. It was a day of firsts - the arena bombed, at least three dead before the gong, and all the Career boys dead by the end of the melee, which I'm sure none of the gamblers could have predicted. Technically, Senan's demise came after the first day had ended, but it's invariably the boys everyone puts their money behind in the beginning. This time, the longest-lived Career boy was the one nobody but himself was betting on, and of the two others who'd drawn any notice, one is dead and the other injured, perhaps seriously. A girl got the most opening kills, the Career pack is a trio of girls, and the remaining boys are either lamed or otherwise beneath the backing of those whose support can turn the tide.

I try to put together a count, but it makes no sense; can there really only be twelve of us left? Bannock, the Career girls, the boy from Six, and who else? The Careers killed someone last night after the count, and I got Senan. I try to piece together the faces in the sky last night. I go over it three times before I'm sure. We're only a day in, and already we're coming close to the final eight. Only three Districts have both Tributes, assuming the girl last night wasn't from Three or Eleven.

With that field, maybe our original plan could still have a shot. Maybe Bannock's injury wasn't that bad; if that backpack he carried away from the Cornucopia had a first aid kit, he might be doing okay. We're the highest-scoring Tributes left, with the only other boy who swept a ten having been blown to pieces before the gong. Even if Haymitch is conscious, the odds of me surviving alone aren't in my favour. He was so adamant about the target on my back rendering me a hopeless cause that I've little doubt he'll back an injured Bannock before me - but if we're together, he has to support us both.

Even if his injury isn't serious, Bannock isn't going to be fit for moving quickly, and probably can't cover much distance. He'll need cover and a source of water. I had both yesterday, but Bannock was headed in the opposite direction when he left the melee, and I think the sharp incline of those woods might have been a little beyond him. Wherever I might find him, it won't be here. To the north and the south of this ever-deepening rocky valley, sheer rock walls seem to be getting taller the further east I go. Even with my bow, I'm starting to feel both boxed in and exposed at the same time. Injured and without a long-range weapon? This place would be a tomb.

The first step to finding Bannock is getting out of this place. I'm fairly certain if I can get over the south wall I'll see the Cornucopia, but everywhere I look the cliff-face is a risky climb, with precious few handholds and a surface that looks almost polished. Even Seneca Crane would be disappointed if I were to kill myself in a fall.

After two hours of walking, I finally find a spot I might be able to scale. I'm examining a likely route when the sound of trickling water catches my attention, luckily just after I've drained the last of mine. I find a small, bubbling rock pool apparently fed by an underwater stream, return my drawn arrow to the quiver and set down my bow to grab my bottles and fill them up. The one I took from Senan is half the size of my own, but water is often the most precious commodity in the arena. It's also usually the first thing the Gamemakers take away when they want to force the final few Tributes together. All the food I can hunt is worthless if there's nothing to drink.

As I add the iodine, I wonder what this water means for Bannock. A lot of Hunger Games tend to place a large source of water near the Cornucopia, but I didn't notice anything like that yesterday. Instead I've stumbled onto two small sources with almost no searching. If the rest of the arena is like this, having something to drink won't be a problem, but the more plentiful these little streams are, the more places there are Bannock could hole up. The more options he has, the harder he'll be to find.

I drop the smaller bottle into my pack, and I'm just attaching the larger one to a strap when a blur of movement catches my eye. What I thought had just been part of a boulder starts to shift, and a mottled grey mass slowly unfurls and detaches itself from the whole. The first distinct shape I see is a cat-like paw the size of my head attached to a thick, sinewy leg.

My hunter's instincts kick in immediately. Careful not to make any sudden moves, I follow the animal's leg up the rest of its body. The 'cat' is as tall as a bear and almost as broad, covered in of mottled greys, browns and black; a perfect camouflage among the rocks. A squashed face that would simply be ugly on any normal cat is made absolutely terrifying by a pair of massive, protuberant teeth the length of my wrist jutting out from below the top lip.

The muttation - for it must certainly be one of the Capitol's lab-grown monstrosities - stares at me with eyes like nothing I've ever seen on a cat. The soft brown orbs look almost human, and as the mutt stretches to rouse itself from rest, they never leave mine, regarding me with a disturbing sort of calculation.

Not taking my eyes off of his, I search with my hand for my bow, and sling it over my shoulder very slowly. The mutt takes a step towards me, and my hand goes to the sheath on my belt, drawing one of the throwing knives I have there. My racing heart skips a beat when the mutt follows the movement. He has one paw in the pool, just outside of striking distance. On the rock, three sets of claws repeatedly click like impatient fingers drumming on a table as he watches the hand with the knife.

Out of nowhere I have to force down a fit of giggles, thinking of Bannock talking up my amazing archery skills and the lynx I brought down a while back. What he doesn't know was that the thing had been following me around for weeks, begging for scraps. When I'd finally decided his effect on game outweighed any potential benefit of having him around, he'd done nothing but stare stupidly at my drawn bow, not reacting at all until the arrow caught him in the throat. This cat's stare is anything but stupid, and if anything, it seems amused by my pathetic little knife.

'Catnip', Gale started to jeer when the lynx had taken to following me; the same name he'd mistakenly heard when he first caught me at his snares. The lynx had barely acknowledged him, but seemed to adore me.

"Nice kitty," I breathe, still inexplicably giddy at the prospect of this thing having me for dinner. Damn Gale; if I somehow manage to get out of this with my skin, I'm never shaking that stupid name.

The mutt cocks its head, watches me edge very slowly away.

Then it starts talking.

"Nice... kitty," it growls in a horrible, mewling voice, like some grotesque mix of a cat and an infant child.

The knife almost slips from between my sweaty fingers. I tighten my grip and bring the blade up between us. The mutt hisses, tensing and lowering its head. "Kat...niss."

We spring at the same time, the mutt leaping towards me while I scramble frantically away, shrieking as a clawed foot passes right in front of my eyes. Throwing up my hands in panic, it's sheer luck that I both avoid being slashed open and manage to hurt the cat. The knife is torn from my grip, stuck deep into its forepaw. It gives a furious shriek as it recoils, then another as it tries to set its paw down, and tumbles clumsily sideways, splashing down in the reddening pool.

I scramble to my feet and sprint the hundred or so feet to the rock wall, almost reaching it before the mutt is in pursuit. I hit the wall at a run, scrambling upwards with no regard for the bloody cuts my carelessness opens up on my hands as I dig into the small cracks and handholds. The heavy pack threatens to deposit me back on the valley floor, but I manage to hang on, hauling myself up to harder-to-reach spots by main strength.

"Katnisssss!" I look back to see the mutt tearing across the valley.

It closes the distance quickly, having apparently dislodged the knife from its paw. Reaching the cliff-face, it leaps a good six feet into the air and tries to run right up it. I've stalled in my climb, trying to find a place to grip to take me higher, and can only stare, frozen in terror as the beast starts snapping at my ankles, a deep red maw opening behind the enormous front teeth which brush against the soles of my feet as it tries to get a grip on me. It's the teeth that save me; a normal hunting cat would be able to grip my feet and pull me down, but from this angle the tusk-like incisors are in the way, preventing it from getting a grip.

The mutt jerks its head wildly, trying to slash at me with the giant teeth. Still trying to find my next handhold, I pull my feet out of the way with another shriek. Desperate to reach me, the cat reaches further up the wall with its injured paw, slips, and gives a frantic shriek of its own as it falls. Its massive teeth gouge two long scratches in the wall, before the left tooth breaks with a sickening snap, and the mutt crashes back down to rocks below. The fall isn't much, certainly not enough to kill it, but it does seem to take a little fight out of it. It lies on the ground, mewling pitifully as I try to get a grip on myself and maintain my grip on the wall.

Wiping my bloody fingers on my jacket, I pull myself up and repeat the process with the other hand. I'm over the top in a little more than ten seconds, flat on my back, sobbing and gasping for breath before I remember the audience. Rich Capitolites don't throw their money at little girls who break down at the first brush with gruesome death by lab-grown monstrosity.

Furiously wiping the tears away, I take a deep breath and pounce to my feet, brandish my bow, nock an arrow and draw as I lean out over the drop.

The cat is gone.

I keep the bow drawn, scanning the entire visible length and breadth of the valley. The mutt may be able to hide among the rocks, but it should stand out clearly in the low grass that makes up most of the immediate landscape. Just a few seconds ago it was howling right below me; where could it have gone so quickly that I'd lose sight of it?

One awful possibility occurs to me. Maybe the cat is only grey and black and brown when it needs to be. Maybe the lunatics who bred it gave it the ability to camouflage in any surroundings.

Well, I'm not waiting around to find out. I'm up here, he's down there and I prefer to keep it that way. I return the arrow to the quiver, sling my bow and take off at a jog. Short of breath, with my sides hurting, I grab my canteen, then return it with a disgusted groan when I remember the iodine. It'll be almost thirty minutes before I can drink any of it.

After ten minutes of half-jogging, half staggering across an open plain with even less cover than the valley, I spy the Cornucopia in the distance. I'm at slightly higher ground, and though this place is even more sparse than the one I just left, at least it's not a prison. If the arena has any kind of defined borders, I'm sure I can see past many of them, and the only place I can't travel is the north, back to the valley and the cat.

To the northwest is the hillside forest where I spent the night, and I can see now that my fire obliterated everything from the peak to one hundred feet below in all directions, before the Gamemakers apparently decided to force a particular path on the destruction. The slope leading up from the Cornucopia is black and barren the entire way.

Directly south of the Cornucopia, what I guess to be a few hours walk, I can make out the fuzzy shapes of small buildings. I can't be sure, but they don't seem to be in good shape. A ruined village or small town, maybe. I prefer greenery. Anytime the Games drift into any kind of urban environment, things get messy. A lot of kids playing a deadly game of hide and seek in places with a lot of dark corners and too many places to hide, usually ending in the most brutal fights. One year a couple of Careers brought a building down on each other. One survived the initial destruction, only to slowly suffocate, screaming and begging for help until he couldn't.

So I'll avoid the south while I have a choice, and try to stick to more familiar environments, where the hiding places are more to my taste. Like the east, where Bannock was headed after the Cornucopia. The terrain is fairly flat, but it's mostly dense trees, occasionally separated by small patches of open field. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun, I make out what must be the shimmering of a good deal of water. Following at well as I can through the trees, I deduce that it's a river, running north to south, it's path coming from behind the rock valley - probably starting in the hills where I spent the night, before sharply turning away from the arena at some point, heading further east and out of sight.

Trees. Water. Where I find the two, odds are I'll find food. And it's in the right direction if I want to find Bannock.

But first I need to do something about my hands. The cuts and scrapes from my frantic climb are superficial, some barely breaking the skin, but I need to clean them up and bandage the ones that are bleeding. The Cornucopia's as good a place as any to do that, and while I'm there I can see if anything survived the fire.

It takes an hour or so to reach the Cornucopia, and the instant I'm there I collapse in a heap against it. The day is almost spent; between patching myself up, and a little scavenging, I'll be lucky to hit the nearest treeline by sunset.

I gratefully guzzle half a bottle of water while making my way around to the mouth of the Cornucopia. A river of that size is most likely the only source of water in my planned direction - the better to draw Tributes together - and barring any problems it'll be late morning or mid-afternoon when I get there. Parched though I am, I don't want to get careless with water. Who knows what will go wrong tomorrow - or what Crane will do next? With my luck, the river will be home to some new horror that knows my name and wants to eat me.

Once I'm inside, I know I can forget about scavenging. The girls were thorough; all that's left is the remains of a bunch of packs and containers, and scraps of metal in various stages of melting. This fire burned hot. Curiously, I place a hand against the Cornucopia wall. It's a little warm, even in the dimming light of early evening, and must have been absolutely blazing in yesterday’s inferno. But the only damage is soot and a little scorching which I think is from everything else burning. It makes sense, I suppose. If ever there's a feast, it's always at the Cornucopia. They'd want it able to withstand a lot of punishment - and this isn't the first time it's been torched. The symbol of the Hunger Games being deliberately destroyed by those forced to play would be a powerful protest, and an embarrassment for the Gamemakers.

Of course, this year the Tributes did better than they would have even if they had managed to cause any real damage to the Cornucopia. Well done, Resa. My burning the woods added insult to injury, even if Crane was the one to turn my little protest fire into a full-on blaze. If I get out of here alive, Haymitch will murder me in my sleep.

I dig out the first aid kit, clean my hands with a medicated wipe and start examining the cuts. The worst damage is a partially torn fingernail, which hurts a lot more than I would expect from a little fingernail, but once it's cleaned - and I'm hissing and swearing from whatever they put on those wipes - I bandage it up and forget about it. It's on my left hand, which is good. If it were the same finger on the right, it might interfere with drawing the bow, or the bandage might get caught on the string.

Of the other cuts, I lightly wrap up two more. They probably didn't need it, but it's better to keep them clean, and the dressings won't get in my way.

I kick through the charred bits and pieces to make sure there's nothing useful, and take what I promise myself will be my last swig of water before morning, and set off to continue the search for my ally.

The last light of day is fading, and the timing for what happens next is just too perfect to be a coincidence. Just as I’m hitting the trees, a feral howl sends shivers down my spine, and I turn to find an enormous grey streak crossing what only seconds ago was an empty sea of green between the Cornucopia and the woods. Even on three paws, its speed is something to marvel at, but I don't have time for that.

I raise and draw my readied bow, sending an arrow arcing towards the cat. It's a perfect shot; right through the eye. Or would be, if the creature didn't seemingly slither right around the shaft without breaking its stride. I think I give it a haircut.

If it dodges a second shot I won't have time for a third, so I sling my bow and dart to the nearest tree, shimmying up the narrow trunk much more easily than I went up the wall. The cat tries to follow, but its injured paw seems to affect its climbing much more than its running, and it can't seem to pull itself up.

Giving up, the beast drops lightly to the ground and snarls at me. The instant I reach a branch to perch on, I grab my bow, draw a third arrow and loose. The beast hops aside, then bats contemptuously at the arrow where it sits sticking out of the ground.

Snarling myself now, I draw another arrow. The cat watches me through narrowed brown eyes, waiting.

Roaring in frustration, I return the arrow to the quiver, and the mutt rolls on it's back, paws in the air like some disgusting mockery of a housecat, giving off a series of wheezy mewls I'm sure is meant to be laughter. It's barely twenty feet away, and I can't so much as scratch it. I could waste every arrow I have up in this tree, which I'm sure is the point.

Throwing the bow over my shoulder, I make my way further up the tree in case the mutt decides to take another shot at climbing. Once I have a better view of the greenery around me, I start to get a bit more confident. The ground may be off-limits, but the trees here are packed together closely enough that getting around might not be impossible.

There are two trees near me that I might be able to make it to. I choose the slightly barer one; the one less likely to see me getting a stray branch in the eye and crashing down to the dinner table.

The branches on my current perch are thick and solid enough to give me a couple of steps, almost a run, to start off my jump. Making doubly sure my pack and bow are secure, and reasonably confident the weight won't drag me down, I rush forward before I can change my mind, launching myself forwards, catching a high branch and using my momentum to fling myself to a thick bough. It's a graceless landing, but I don't injure myself.

"Kaaatnissssss," a soft feline voice calls out mockingly. I don't need to look to know it's coming from directly below my new perch.

"Shut up," I growl.

Immediately scanning for my next move, I climb down a little, take a deep breath, and jump.

I continue this way, moving towards the river as much as possible. Every time I hit a new tree, it's with a careful eye on the next one; sometimes climbing higher, sometimes lower. The further I go into the thickening woods, the more options I have, but I also have to start planning my moves more carefully. More than once I find myself in a tree the mutt feels more confident in its ability to climb, and I have to start looking for trees without low boughs for him to reach. The thicker the trunk, the more it easily it seems able to use its back paws in aiding the climb.

Once it very nearly gets me, taking the tree in leaps and bounds and slashing at me as I scramble to reach my next launch point. The new branch cracks beneath my feet, threatening to deposit me right back down on the forest floor. I stumble, and fly right at the trunk, wrapping my arms gratefully around it even as all the breath is knocked out of my lungs and my ribs protest the impact. Looking back, I see the cat on my last perch. It takes a step further out, then retreats as that branch cracks too. Glaring at me, it turns and goes back to ground. I slump against the tree trunk, giving myself a chance to recover my breath and make sure I haven't really hurt myself before continuing.

I don't know how long this goes on. It's full dark by the time I give up. I haven't seen the cat in quite a while, and I sit in what I hope is a safe spot, trying to think of when I last heard it. My hands are raw, my legs are jelly, and the pain in my chest hasn't faded since a second accident. I think I might have bruised a couple of ribs, which isn't disastrous, but all these little injuries are going to add up if I'm not careful. And to top it off, at some point during all my scrambling I broke my promise about conserving my water, and now I wish I hadn't. Grasping my sore chest, I clamber into a more secure position, lying flat across a wide bough, sore hands rubbing my aching chest. My stomach joins in the protest, but I ignore it. Food is the only problem I don't have right now.

They'll be showing the death count soon. I'm actually sort of surprised they haven't already, but sometimes they'll delay it if there's an exciting enough reason to. I'm sure Catnip Everdeen has provided the Capitolites with plenty of entertainment tonight.

Sore and exhausted as I am, I almost miss the flash of silver flying past my face, and then I nearly fall out of my tree as I reach out to grab it. Grasping the small tin attached to the little silver parachute, I hold it up to the moonlight in sheer disbelief; Haymitch hasn't abandoned me after all.

Unscrewing the lid, I take a sniff of the thick cream within. It has a strong, minty smell. Lightly dipping a finger, I smear a little on my hand, and the relief is immediate. The cream is so cold it almost seems to burn, but as I rub it in the effect is actually quite pleasant, and the pain recedes rapidly.

I'm sure this is meant for my ribs, but a little seems to go a long way, so I take care of my hands first, removing all but one of the dressings from earlier. Once that's taken care of I secure my backpack, struggle out of my jacket and tunic and apply the cream liberally to my chest. The night is uncomfortably cool, and the cream makes it even more so, but I hardly care once the pain begins to fade.

Once the cream has more or less dried, I throw my tunic and jacket back on and lay back again, exhausted. This spot will do for the night. Turning my head, I'm trying to remind myself that I can't just nod off like this - no sleeping bag, not tied in - when I notice the glow.

The fire isn't far away; I would have spotted it a long time ago if I hadn't been so caught up in not being eaten. In fact, my first thought after wondering if it's Bannock is that whoever owns it should already have taken my place on the menu.

Grabbing my pack, I check the quiver and give a start – I’m down to four arrows. Gaping, I try to figure out how that happened. The melee; I shot the boy from Seven and never retrieved the arrow when Bannock sent me on my way. Three got destroyed; one while I was shortening the shafts, and two more while I was practicing. I fired one in the dark at the Career girls, and then had to flee the fire. And that damn cat cost me three more.

Furious with myself, I throw the pack onto my back. Chiding myself for wasting rabbit organs, and I’ve gone and thrown away precious arrows like they were nothing. I’ve had arrows break on me while hunting, but I’ve never just left one behind. Now here I am in the fight for my life, wasting my most precious resource.

Grumbling under my breath, I start looking around for the quickest way to the next tree, and feel sore again at the mere thought. Looking around below me, I can barely see the ground, let alone any dark grey monsters curled up at the trunk of my tree. Surely if it was still around, it would have turned its attention to the firestarter, and I would have heard it playing with its food.

There's always the possibility that Crane is controlling the creature well enough that it's ignoring other Tributes in favour of me, but right now I'm not sure the Capitol audience would let him away with that. He’s been very clearly – at least, it’s been clear to me – gunning for me from the beginning; my stubborn survival will not only have embarrassed him, but greatly benefitted me. Surely after my opening day, someone must have thought I had something to offer these Games. I twirl the medicine container between my fingers. This must have been a huge expense even this early on, and if I have supporters with enough money to send me medicine, how long will Crane pushing his vendetta really be tolerated?

I climb down slowly, stopping at the lowest bough, straining my eyes and ears for any sign of the cat. After a good minute or two, I climb the rest of the way, and nothing immediately devours me. Glancing in the direction of the fire, I'm surprised to see it's barely visible. Whoever was dumb enough to have a fire burning this late, they were at least smart enough to dig a pit. It only stood out to me from above.

Grasping my bow, I pick my way carefully towards the glow, dropping to a crawl when I'm maybe fifty feet out. As I approach, I slip behind a thicket and get a good look at them. In a well-covered little clearing, four figures sit around a hole in the ground, maybe two feet wide and a foot deep. It couldn't have been easy for any of them to dig into the hard earth with the small shovel lying next to the one girl in the group.

My heart sinks. The idea of someone putting in the kind of work to dig an actual pit for a fire out here had me hopeful, but none of those gathered around the fire is Bannock. The girl from Three is the only one whose name I can remember - Nova - and also the biggest among them, quite tall, but somewhere between skeletal and what some might generously call willowy. One of the boys, the only one who seems not to have starved most of his life, is maybe a head shorter than Nova. I think he's from Eleven. Then there's Nova's district partner, a bare inch taller than me with a pair of black-framed glasses perched on his nose, and a third boy I don't recognise. A little shorter than the boy from Eleven, but as skinny as Nova. I think he's from Five, or maybe Nine. Then I remember the boy from Five is dead. Nine, then.

This little group huddled around a fire might be the strangest thing I've seen since Resa's opener. Tributes banding together is nothing new, but it's almost exclusively Careers. Sometimes District partners will work together, but I don't think I've ever seen a pack like this. What's more, they're well-supplied and eating well. Every one of them has a pack, weapons and water, and the boy from Eleven is pouring soup from a pot over the fire into wooden bowls. That makes me blink. Bowls?

So it wasn't Senan or the Career pack who burned the Cornucopia; it was a baby pack. The Careers must have been in a big hurry to start their hunt after the melee ended. With only three of them, they couldn't leave anyone to guard the supplies, and they were cocky enough or stupid enough that they didn't bother destroying it all before they left. Why didn’t Senan burn it after he went back? I dismiss that thought – of course he wouldn’t think to do that. At any rate, making fire would probably have been beyond his abilities if he were in a fuel refinery with a sack full of matches. So this lot, quite possibly the youngest and smallest left in the whole arena besides myself, came back to grab whatever they could carry, and then they made sure nobody else could do the same.

They may not be very physical, but at least they're resourceful. And, I think, looking at the concealed fire, they have a brain or two between them.

They sip silently at the soup until the bowls are empty, and each gets a little bit more from the pot before it too runs dry. Once they're finished, Nova stands up unceremoniously and starts kicking piles of dirt into the pit, dousing the fire.

"I'll take first watch. Tock, I'll wake you in a couple of hours. Sleep while you can."

"They still haven't shown the recap," the boy from Eleven says apprehensively. "What are they waiting for?"

Nova shrugs. "Must be an exciting night. Maybe the Careers are about to pounce on Katniss."

"Or maybe _she_ found _them_ ," the boy from Nine suggests with a strange sort of hopefulness in his voice.

"Maybe."

"Or maybe they're about to pounce on us," Eleven murmurs.

"Well, at least we won't die hungry. Get some sleep." Nova picks something out of her pack and walks to the far edge of the clearing.

The others all settle into their sleeping bags - they did very well indeed at the Cornucopia - and I give it to a count of a thousand, by which at least one of the boys is already snoring, before I move again. Crawling slowly away from my hiding spot, a slip around to a gap in the trees where I have a clear line of sight on all four of them. The moon in the cloudless sky makes it all too easy to pick my targets out of the darkness. Nova first, then all of the boys before any of them can even be out of their sleeping bags. Four targets; four arrows. No problem at all; no excuse not to take them out.

So why, ten full minutes later, have I not pulled a single arrow from my quiver?

I sit watching the sleeping bag I know to contain Tock, thinking of the odd excitement in his voice when he talked about me finding the Careers. Is that what they think of me? That I could somehow hunt down the fiercest competitors in the Games, and pick them off as easily as a bunch of turkeys?

Instead I'm sitting watching a bunch of sleeping babes, trying to convince myself to murder them while they dream.

I'm about to lose every sponsor I have. If I don't do this, the Games are over for me. Nobody backs a Tribute with a conscience. If I spare them, nobody will care what horrors Seneca Crane unleashes on me next.

If I kill them, I'm no better than Senan, Crane, or any other mutt stalking the arena.

Defeated, I throw my bow over my shoulder and approach the camp. Picking out a tree near where Tock sleeps, I climb slowly, checking every few seconds to be sure none of the boys stir, and that Nova still has her back to me.

I freeze in place when she does move, turning and moving to the other side of the clearing, staring fixedly out at the spot where, moments ago, I sat trying to talk myself into killing her.

I give it another few seconds and continue my climb, eventually finding a good place to tie myself in for the night. Nova spins at the noise of my fetching the rope from my pack, but she never looks up. I decide not to risk digging out the sleeping bag, instead just zipping my jacket up all the way and pulling the sleeves over my hands. One cold night won't kill me.

In the morning, I can either approach the baby pack, or follow them. They're bound to cross the paths of either the Careers or that thing from Six, as Bannock referred to him. If nothing else, they'll make good bait. And with a little luck, somebody will take the decision of their deaths out of my hands.

The anthem begins at last. Apparently they really were waiting for me to pick off the babies. Who will be more disappointed now; Crane or Haymitch? An hour ago I was a prime target for one and a solid bet for the other. Now Haymitch will either be scrambling to preserve a couple of sponsors or turning all his focus on Bannock. Now Crane can kill me with total impunity, but if he was counting on my putting on a show before I died, he knows now that won’t happen.

Senan is first; an arrogant smirk under a mess of dirty blonde hair. Then the girl from Eleven, who the Career girls butchered last night.

I'm about to close my eyes when a final face appears in the sky, and my heart gives a horrified lurch. I sit bolt upright, gaping and trying to remember a cannon I never heard. It turns out my count earlier was wrong. There aren’t twelve of us left; there are only eleven. And it looks like Haymitch won't be transferring his support to Bannock Mellark after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Katniss**

I wake, sore and stiff once again, to the sound of the baby pack breaking camp. It took me a long time to get to sleep after seeing Bannock's face in the sky, trying to figure out how I could have missed the cannon. Eventually I surmised that it must have fired while the unnatural 'smoke' kept me sleeping.

The rest of the questions come back when I wake up. What happened? What must his family be going through? Worst of all; what do I do next? Yesterday my only plan began and ended with finding Bannock. Now I'm perched in a tree above the weakest Tributes in the Games, and I can't do the one thing I've been sent into the arena to do.

Maybe the baby pack aren't the weak ones after all.

I untie myself from the tree and slip the rope and sleeping bag quietly into my pack, glancing down to check that nobody has seen or heard anything, when a flash of movement at the edge of my field of vision catches my attention. At first I'm afraid the cat is back, but then I spot the golden ponytail. Dazzle.

I quickly spot the other two. The Career girls are crawling up to the clearing where the babies are packing up their things from the exact same direction I approached by last night. They'll be right on top of them before anybody sees a thing.

This is exactly what I wanted when I found them last night. The Careers take out the babies, and I take out the Careers. After witnessing their brutality at the Cornucopia and hearing the tortured screams of the girl they set upon that first night, I'm reasonably sure I can kill the Career pack without hesitation.

Once I've sat by and done nothing while they slaughter the most defenceless children in the arena.

"Get out of there!"

Nova and the others all turn at my shout. The boy from Nine is at the edge of the clearing closest to the Careers, and looks to be disabling some trap I never noticed - and came very close to walking into - last night.

"Now!" I roar, plucking an arrow from my quiver and drawing it.

The Careers are on their feet now, and the boy from Nine abandons his work and turns to run the instant he spots Laurel charging at him. I loose the arrow, which catches her right in the heart.

And then the ground explodes where she falls, blasting the boy from Nine right across the clearing. The blast catches me off-guard, and I stumble out of my perch, barely catching myself on a lower branch before I can crash all the way to the ground along with my bow.

My pack is still hanging above where I was sleeping, along with my quiver. My bow is on the forest floor. All I have is the knife belt I never removed while I slept. But if I'm going to take out the Careers, I won't get a better chance than this. The girl from Four is nowhere to be seen, and Dazzle is flat on her back, probably unconscious from the blast.

When I get to the ground, the rest of the baby pack hasn’t fled like I assumed they would, but are fussing over the charred, legless corpse of the boy from Nine. They completely ignore me, and the boy from Three has his back to me.

Briefly examining the three of them wasting time trying to wake the dead when they could be finishing the Careers or running for their lives, I reevaluate my estimation of their brains. These people have nothing to offer me but their supplies. I could easily cut one throat before the other two noticed me, and finish them both in seconds.

Dazzle groans loudly, and I turn to find her clambering unsteadily to her feet. Swearing, I grab my bow from the ground and rush at her. She regains her composure upon seeing me, reaching for the short sword at her back.

"Catch!" I snap, and toss her my bow, just as I'd seen Bannock do with his axe to the instructor who'd brutalised him in training.

Not quite as stupid as the instructor, Dazzle forgets her sword and bats the bow out of the air rather than trying to catch it, but that still gives me the opening I need. I knee her in the gut at a run. Wheezing, she reaches out blindly, grabs a fistful of my hair, and we stumble to the ground.

Kicking blindly until she loosens her grip in my hair, I slam my fist across her jaw, apparently hurting myself more than I do her. Dazzle's response is quick and blinding; disoriented or not, she's still much stronger than me. Her fist explodes across my own jaw, a straight jab to the eye immediately follows, and the entire left side of my face radiates pain. Rolling away, I blindly throw a kick, eliciting a howl of pain. Struggling to one knee, she reaches for her sword again.

I grab a knife from my belt and fling it at her face. She tries to dodge it, and I just miss her eye. Her hand flies to her face, where a long gash instantly results in a river of blood flowing down the temple and the side of her head, her pale face and golden hair turning crimson.

Apparently the worst thing anyone can do to a girl from District One is damage her looks. Realising what I've done to her precious face, and apparently not a fan of the idea that scars add character, she flies at me with a furious shriek, her sword seeking my throat. I dodge the blade and scramble away frantically. I don't know where my bow is, most of my other weapons are still up in the tree, and all I have left are four stubby little throwing knives. I grab and toss one at the first opportunity; she knocks it away and keeps slashing at me as I retreat.

I'm reaching for another knife when she gets me. Once again she was aiming for my throat, but instead the blade slashes from just below my collarbone halfway to my left elbow. The pain is immediate and agonising, as if the entire wound was immediately engulfed in flame. I fall, the scream I let out barely sounding human.

The bloody blade whirls above Dazzle's head. Whining pitifully, too weak to lash out, I try to crawl out of her reach, only to be stopped by her boot on my chest.

It's a good while after dawn. Is it the same time in District Twelve? I have no idea; I don't even know where the arena is, or what the Gamemakers might have been doing to the sky and the weather. Maybe it's close to noon or well before sunrise immediately outside the arena. Maybe Prim won't be in front of the television, having just planned to make sure I hadn't died in the night before our mother forced her to go to school. Not that it really matters. The Games don’t air live in school, but Prim will be forced to watch my death when they’re all updated on the ‘highlights’ of the show.

The rock catches Dazzle right where my knife cut her. She drops her blade with a startled cry, takes one look at where the rock came from, and vanishes from my view. Then Nova is standing above me, her own sword out. She looks me over briefly, sheaths the sword and drops to one knee.

"Get up," she orders, "before they decide to come back."

The searing pain is getting worse. My entire body is shaking, the tears stinging my eyes. I want to tell her to just finish me off, but I can't get the words out, then her arm slips under her back, she grabs my uninjured arm and I scream as she pulls me into a sitting position. She examines my wound, grimacing. "Not the worst thing I've seen - or even the worst in the last two minutes - but we don't have time to anything about it. I think the girl from Four ran as soon as the mine went off, but if she changes her mind she could cut through us all in a few seconds."

"Mine?" I ask, my voice high and weak.

"The mines from the Cornucopia. We dug them up," she says simply. "Can you stand?"

I can, but it takes much longer than it should. Twice I fall, wincing and sobbing. The third time it's with Nova's arm around my waist that I make it all the way to my feet, my teeth clenched around a scream. My eyes snap to a loud thud; my pack hitting the ground, followed quickly by the boy from Eleven. He scoops up the pack and slings it over his shoulder.

"Do you have her bow?" he asks Nova. "It wasn't up there."

"She had it with her. Check the edge of the clearing."

Nova and I move slowly to where Nova's District partner is hunched over the remains of the boy from Nine.

"Tock, get your things. We have to find somewhere we can hole up and deal with this," Nova tells him, gesturing vaguely at me.

Tock turns to us, his face ashen. "He's still alive," he breathes.

Nova groans, leading me to a nearby tree and propping me up against it. Once she's sure I'm not going to fall over, she ushers Tock out of the way, and that's when I get my first good look at the boy from Nine.

He's facedown on the forest floor, facing away from me, his entire back scorched black. Both his legs end somewhere around the knees, the two pools of blood coming together as one. Then the smell catches me, and my good hand clamps over my mouth.

I've seen and smelled plenty of charred lumps of human flesh in our house in Twelve. Nobody who works the mines can ever afford a real doctor, so any fall, cave-in or explosion victim still breathing invariably gets brought to my mother. It's an experience that sends the big brave hunter fleeing for the woods every time, while tiny, frail Prim and my mother dive in without hesitation or fear, doing whatever they can. But sometimes my mother will simply take one look at the victim, give a small shake of her head, and move on to the next one. There's hardly ever only one. They can sometimes cram as many as six into our tiny house. Others have to wait in the street.

My mother wouldn't bother bringing this boy inside. She'd take one look at him, give his whatever she could spare for the pain, and tell them to take him home and try to keep him comfortable. Sometimes she might direct them to Ripper, the one-armed woman who sells white liquor in the Hob, and whose prices will usually drop for something like this.

Nova turns away from the boy, fighting the urge to retch. "We can't help him," she mutters at last. "Let's just get out of here before they change their minds and come back for us."

"We can't just leave him like this," Tock protests. "Shouldn't we... _do_ something?"

Nova opens her mouth to respond, but she's interrupted by a gurgling from the dying boy, which quickly turns into a choked scream.

"We have to go," says the boy from Eleven, glancing around furtively. "If they hear, him, they'll come back for sure."

Nova draws her sword. The boy's scream subsides into a low, wordless mewling. She grasps his hair and gingerly pulls his head back, but the boy doesn't seem to notice her until she brings the blade to the front of his throat. He doesn't speak, but his moans sound a lot like pleas; whether for her to stop or finish him off, I couldn't say.

With a defeated sigh, Nova releases the dying boy and falls back on her butt.

Then recoils with a squeak as my flung knife buries itself in the back of his neck.

"Time to go," I tell them, looking everywhere but at the dead boy. "Don't forget the knife."

I push myself away from the tree, take a single stumbling step, and fall flat on my face.

*****

I wake to the sound of rushing water.

The river is maybe forty feet wide and moving fast. Maybe there'd be a possibility of crossing somewhere further down, but here it seems that our tiny river course in the Training Centre did nothing to prepare us for the real thing.

"Tock and Ash are looking to see if there's anywhere nearby we might be able to cross."

I turn my head painfully to find Nova on my other side. Seeing her sitting next to the river reminds me of the Training Centre; she couldn't keep her feet in a fight, but she was my only serious competitor on the assault course.

I'm lying on a makeshift litter just off the muddy riverbank, my chest, shoulder and neck wrapped too tightly in too many bandages. My jacket and shirt, torn and bloody, are also dripping wet, hanging on a tree branch after an apparent attempt to clean them. The trees are thick enough to provide some cover, but this was a bad place to settle down. If the Careers catch us here, the only thing the river might offer is a slightly quicker death.

"Well, that's what I told them, anyway,” Nova continues. “I really just didn't want to hear any more of Ash's whining. Truth is, I don't think they're going to let us put that much distance between ourselves and the Careers," she grumbles, jerking her chin to the sky. "We're already down to the final eight – there was another cannon while you were out of it – but a quick Games is better than a boring one. They need to keep up the pace."

"We had a delivery," she adds conversationally. "The first any of us had received, so I assume it was from Haymitch." She holds up large tube of what looks like some sort of medicine. "Skin glue. I don't think it's usually used for something as big as a sword wound, but he probably thought it was better than trusting me with a needle and thread."

"Or it was cheaper than real medicine," I groan, wondering what my remaining sponsors are capable of. Picking a fight with Dazzle might have won me a little respect, even though I came off worse in the fight, but I doubt it made up for all the support I lost last night. If I'd acted like a Tribute is meant to and shot them, I wouldn't be in this mess to begin with.

"Maybe. You probably should have just killed us last night." She smirks at my wide-eyed stare. "I spotted you when the anthem was playing. Kept waiting for you to start shooting, but then you just went to sleep."

"And that makes you trust me?"

She shrugs. "As much as I trust anyone who has to kill me to survive. Can you sit up? I want to check your wound."

Before removing my bandages, Nova dips her finger in a pot of water suspended over a small fire, and adds a few twigs to the flames, and we both glance apprehensively upwards to be sure the smoke isn't enough to be seen from a distance.

Twisting painfully to get a look at the damage, I grimace. Nova did a good job cleaning the wound, but the jagged slice across my shoulder and down my arm along with my glued flesh and mottled bruising are a gruesome combination. If I do somehow manage to go home, the scars will be quite the memento of my time here. The Victor is usually cleaned up to be me made presentable for Capitol audiences, but I've wondered before about some of the less visible damage. Would they bother fixing scars in an area that wouldn't usually be on display, or would Seneca Crane prefer I carry the grim reminder?

Shaking off any far-flung thought of victory, I give the arm an experimental stretch at Nova's instruction, recoiling and swallowing a whimper at the pain that shoots across the length of the wound and all the way down to me elbow.

"I'd say you got pretty lucky," Nova tells me. "A quarter inch higher and it would have hit your collarbone. A quarter inch deeper and all the glue in the world wouldn't have kept you from bleeding to death. It's not pretty, but it's a flesh wound."

Using one of the bandages as a rag, she gives the wound another brief cleaning with hot water. "Assuming blood poisoning doesn’t set in, you'll be fine." She lays a clean dressing over it and goes a little lighter on the bandages this time. She's just finishing up when the boys return; she passes me her own jacket and helps me into it.

"The river just gets worse as far as we could see," Tock announces, looking away from my bare chest as Nova helps me cover up. He was another surprise in training; not a pick of muscle, but that didn't help the instructor when it came to hitting him. The boy from Eleven - Ash - made absolutely no impression in training, which is how it usually goes for babies like us. That three of us managed to distinguish ourselves even a little next to the Careers is pretty abnormal. If this boy wasn't here right now, I doubt I'd be able to recall his face at all. Anonymous corpses are usually the Games' most common product.

"It's pretty far, so I couldn't be sure of what I was seeing, but there could be a bridge leading into those ruins," Tock adds, pointing vaguely south.

"Good place for an ambush," I suggest. "I'd bet there's something waiting at that bridge likes to play with its food." I tell them about the cat. "Have you seen or heard any mutts?"

"Just that thing from Six," Nova tells me.

I blink at Nova. That's what Resa called him. And Bannock.

"He ran right by me without even seeing me after the Cornucopia," she says. "Never even saw me. No supplies, just that monster axe of his. With so few of us left, we might get lucky in that regard. They should hold the mutts in reserve unless somebody tries to get away from the action."

"Who's left?"

"There were two cannons right after we left the clearing," Tock tells me. "The girl from Two, and Cropper." He pauses, uncomfortable. Ash, who has yet to say a word, takes his eyes off the forest floor for the first time, looking at me with open distrust and not a little fear. “The third cannon came about an hour later.”

"Maybe the Career girls turned on each other," I say to fill the silence, not really confident in the idea.

"Maybe," Tock stumbles on. "The other choices are girls from Five and Eight, and the boy from Six. I suppose we’ll have to wait until tonight to find out. At any rate there are only eight of us left."

"They’ll be talking to our families," I realise. My stomach lurches at the thought of my mother and Prim having to answer questions about my conduct in the Games, of having to gush about how proud they are of my poisoning Senan and blowing up two people. My most understandable action so far will have been putting poor Cropper out of his misery. A mercy he would never have needed if not for me. My mother at least may have some understanding. Prim, on the other hand, is fast learning what kind of creature her sister is.

The thing from Six isn't the only two-legged mutt in this arena.

"Good," says Nova. "Between our exciting morning and getting ready for family interviews, they should leave us alone for the day." She jerks her head to the sky. "And the Career girls will be busy licking their own wounds. I say we eat while we can and turn in early. Tomorrow we figure out our next move."

The three of them go into their packs, coming out with handfuls of various dried foods. Nova finds the last of the rabbit in my pack and looks to me, questioning. I nod, and she divides it up as evenly as possible, splitting her own food supply with me. I eat carefully, not moving my injured arm at all. Flesh wound or not, the throbbing and stinging are near constant, but I can ignore it as long as I don't move.

While we eat I glance around at the wealth of supplies. Everyone has weapons, a pack and sleeping bags, and none of them seem to be hurting for food. A flat disc secured to Nova's pack must be one of the mines from the Cornucopia.

"So it was you who burned the Cornucopia?" I ask. "When I saw it I thought it must have been the Careers."

"Actually, it was Bannock."

I pause in the middle of chewing and stare at Nova.

"The four of us were running more or less alongside each other after the gong, but none of us had much in the way supplies," Tock tells me. "We decided to go back together. It looked like everybody had left, then we went around to the front and there's Bannock, sitting on a crate with no pants on, patching up his leg."

"Such a waste," Nova breathes dreamily. I glance at her, curious, while Tock huffs with laughter and Ash just gapes at her, disgusted. "What?" she shrugs, unashamed as I catch her meaning and blush. "He was a lot to look at."

"Anyway," Tock continues, still chuckling, "he may not have been totally prepared for company, but he was the only one armed. Still, he told us to take what we wanted, so we did."

"And then Tock thought of digging up the mines and seeing if they could be rearmed," Nova adds proudly. Tock blushes a little at the praise. "We all took one. They're heavy, but having them set up around us lets us sleep at night."

"Did Bannock stay with you?" Nova nods. I take a deep breath before blurting the question that kept me tossing and turning last night. "How did he die?"

"Saving my stupid life," Tock mutters, before turning all his focus to his meal.

Nova regards him pityingly. "It wasn't your fault."

Tock won't look at her. She glances back to me, gives a small shake her head. We both drop the subject, but the lump in my throat doesn’t go away. Big, goofy, scary Bannock allied himself with the weakest kids in the arena and died protecting them. I’ve been trying to talk myself into killing them since the moment I found them.

The rest of the meal passes in silence. Once we're done Nova suggests piling all our remaining food so we can divide it evenly. She pulls the packs of crackers and dried foods out of my pack, then finds the berries in the pocket. "Not those," I tell her. "They're poison."

"Why carry them?" Tock asks, absently separating the various sorts of dried foods we all had. "If you leave them out, anyone who finds them is going to smell a trap."

"That depends on how you use them." I tell them about Senan and the rabbit. They all go a little green, and I decide not to mention that I had also considered using the berries to poison the arrowheads. Ash, at least, is already terrified of me. I don't want my allies' fear outweighing their desperation. If they turned on me in my current condition, it would be a very short fight.

The weapons and tools go in another pile, and I’m reminded of what my carelessness has cost me since the Games began. I lost another arrow this morning when Laurel was blown to pieces, and it doesn’t like the knives I flung at Dazzle were recovered. I’m down to three arrows and three throwing knives, as well as the one longer knife and the arrowheads in my pack. Each of my allies has a short sword, along with a spear that must have been Cropper's, and whatever happened to Bannock they must have had time to reclaim his supplies; my eyes fall on twin axes and a second mine pulled from Nova's overstuffed pack. Everybody has a large water bottle and iodine. Finally, five large, serrated knives like my own, five small pouches of basic medical supplies, two small shovels, a single bundle of rope, and a coil of wire a little thicker than the one from my pack.

Tock sets about dividing everything as evenly as possible. He and Nova take an axe each, while Ash and I get an extra knife. He doesn't bother parceling out the arrowheads or throwing knives. I keep my bow, though I doubt I can use it right now, and one of the mines goes into my pack. They've only set a single trap each night, but Tock also divides up the thicker wire coil, and promises to show me how to rig the mine when we're settling in for the night.

The rabbit was the only fresh food any of us were carrying, and the open packets of crackers and fruit are left out while the rest is divided up. Since we're not going anywhere, I suggest using the wire from my pack to set up a couple of snares. We're not exactly short on food, but we might as well keep the preserved rations as a backup, just in case.

I clamber carefully to my feet, grab my bow and quiver, and the wire. Nova goes with me, sword in hand, while the boys guard the camp.

We walk for about five minutes – Nova slowing to keep pace with my pained shuffling – when we come across a likely spot. The small clearing has seen a lot of traffic; patches of bushes have been chewed at fairly frequently, and in addition to the rabbit droppings, the trampled earth and marked oak trees point to deer – not bears, as I assure an apprehensive Nova, pointing out that the markings are clearly from antlers as opposed to claws. This really would be prime hunting land if not for the sullying presence of the Gamemakers. The only large predator I've seen any evidence of is the one they grew in a lab.

I pick out a spot and hand Nova a length of wire, biting back a wince as the pain that shoots up my arm when I extend it. She easily copies my movements, setting her own snare a few feet from mine, after which there's just enough wire for two more, which we set at two other thickets at opposite ends of the clearing. We complete the work in silence, and are just heading back when I cock my head at the flapping of wings, and find I was wrong about the large predators. A massive bird something like a falcon alights on the bow of an oak and begins tearing into the spoils of its own hunting; a fawn.

"Mutt?" Nova breathes.

"No," I respond in a whisper, though I never thought birds as big as this existed in nature. Its wingspan is longer than Gale is tall. But if this was one of the Capitol’s creations it wouldn’t ignore us in favour of the local wildlife.

The throbbing in my shoulder picks up the instant I begin to reach for an arrow, and I decide against it. I catch Nova following the movement, but she says nothing. The bird continues to ignore us, too focused on its meal.

By the time the short walk back is done, I all but collapse with exhaustion. Nova suggests I try to get some sleep, and although I've slept most of the day away, I know it's a good idea. Warm as it still is and exhausted as I am I don't bother with my sleeping bag. Instead I just stretch out on the forest floor, my pack as a pillow.

As soon as I close my eyes, awareness of my injured arm peaks, burning constantly and throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I try to focus on something else, but the only obvious thing is the river, too loud and wild to be at all relaxing.

I lie there for what seems like hours of certainty I won't sleep, but sleep I must, because when I open my eyes the sun is setting and the river has calmed considerably. It's quiet enough that I can just about make out the angry whispers from the huddled group next to the dying fire.

"Supplies are all well and good, but our weapons might as well be made of paper for all the use we can make of them," Tock is telling Ash. "The mines were the best chance we had until this morning. Maybe we can still lure Six into a trap or the other girls, but the Careers will be ready for it. You've seen her shoot; she can take them out without breaking a sweat."

"Not right now she can't," Nova interjects. "She can hardly move that arm. She's not shooting anything like that, and she was barely a threat to Dazzle in close quarters _before_ she was hurt."

"She could be a lot better tomorrow. If she can shoot, there's no need to fight."

"And _then_ what?" Ash hisses loudly, prompting the other two to _shush_ him. "What," he demands more quietly, "are we going to do if she takes out the Careers and the freak?"

"What are any of us meant to do if we're among the last few standing?" Tock asks. "It's the same problem no matter what. All anyone can do against anyone else is fight and hope for the best. Maybe whoever's left can agree to a fair fight."

"He's right," Nova says sullenly. "There are only two relatively positive outcomes to being in the Games. The more likely one is a quick death. I don't want to die in here, but do you really think either of us is going to win? Realistically, the best we can hope for is not to suffer. If the Careers or the freak get us, suffering's a given."

"You're dumber than he is," Ash breathes. "Right now, she's the weak link. You want to wait until she's a threat again and hope for the best?"

"If you want to leave, you have your share of the supplies," Nova tells him, clearly tired of his whining. "Nobody will stop you. And who knows; maybe she manages to take them all out but is easy pickings afterwards. Then I only need to kill you two," she says lightly. Tock laughs weakly at that.

"Bannock was right," Nova goes on, her tone becoming more pensive. "Only one person can win, but if it's any one of us, and we do it without turning into some kind lunatic or stabbing anyone in the back, that's worth something. When have you ever even heard of a Games like this? That crazy cripple didn't just stick it to the Gamemakers, she gave all of us the chance to do the same. She completely skewed the odds, and left behind a Games where the weakest can be something more than cannon fodder. Bannock chose to be a part of that the moment he didn't kill us, and he seemed pretty sure Katniss would do the same."

"And she did," Tock added confidently. "If she was playing by their rules she would have killed us all last night."

This conversation has taken a dangerous turn. It reeks of rebellion, which is exactly what got us and so many other kids into this mess to begin with. And when, exactly, did my being too cowardly to kill them become an act of glorious defiance against the Capitol?

"Well, that's worked out for her. She has the three of us for bait and human shields."

I like Ash's thoughts on my character a lot more than Nova's. Having the Districts hate me isn't as dangerous as having the Capitol hate me. Then I remember that the one Capitolite who holds my fate in his hands hates me already.

"She can barely move..." Ash continues.

"Like Tock said, she might be a lot better tomorrow. Her injury isn't really that bad."

"That's my point! If we're going to do something about her, we should do it now. If we don't, and she beats them? What's a fair fight when she can pick us off just as easily as she does them?"

"I'll give you a warning and a head start."

Nova and Ash flip around to me; Nova looking slightly worried, Ash absolutely terrified. Tock, facing me across the fire, barely reacts, instantly making me paranoid. Did he see that I was awake? Is that the only reason he was talking me up to the others?

I shrug off the suspicion. Like it or not, these are my allies, and I have to trust them.

Besides, Ash is clearly the one most likely to stick a knife in my back.

"Then I suppose that's settled," Nova announces with something approaching cheer. She glances skyward. "Feel up to checking the snares before it gets too dark? There won't be time if we have another exciting morning."

I nod, clamber carefully to my feet, and start to unzip Nova's jacket. "Keep it," she says. "Yours is still soaked, and your tunic isn't doing much better. That, at least, might be dry by morning." But the moment she steps away from the fire, she gives a little shiver in the cooling evening. Tock, still sitting close to the flames, tosses her his jacket, and she shrugs into it gratefully.

I leave my bow, which is essentially a fashion accessory for all the good it does me right now, and strap on my knife belt within reach of my good arm. Nova carries her sword in hand.

We reach the snares quickly, only to find three empty, and one gone. With the light rapidly fading, I'm starting to think I misremembered where the fourth snare was and begin to search around, but Nova produces a flashlight and shines it at my feet - and the ring of blood I'm standing in.

"Well," I breathe, hopping back to examine the mess and determinedly ignoring the pain that shoots down my arm at the movement, "looks like it was a good catch. A buck, maybe, and big."

"Great. Four snares, and all we managed to do was feed that damn bird."

"It wasn't the bird." I grab her hand and direct the flashlight beam to a massive paw print in the blood. "Let's get back."

We abandon the empty snares and start to jog. We're barely out of the clearing when we hear the shriek overhead. Nova dashes behind a tree, and my hand moves to reach over my shoulder for an arrow that isn't there. Following Nova, I watch the sky and glimpse a flash of massive wings as the bird descends like a meteor into the trees a couple of hundred feet away. An instant later there's a second shriek; one unmistakably emitted by an enormous cat, furious and pained.

"Run!" I hiss, shoving Nova ahead of me.

By the time we get back, my shoulder is throbbing and burning worse than ever. I duck my head and scrub away tears before anyone can see them. Nova collapses, breathless, next to the fire. The boys are one their feet, watching the woods apprehensively.

"What was that?" Ash squeaks. He has his jacket on, and a bulging backpack slung over his shoulders.

"Hopefully, a dying cat," I groan, rubbing at my shoulder. "But if you're leaving, I'd recommend going that way." I point back the way he and Tock came after their scouting. "We don't know what's in those ruins, but there's at least one very big hunter out there right now."

Ash glares at me as if the whole situation is my fault – which, given the presence of the cat, it probably is – and sinks to the ground, tossing his pack away from him.

"Could you please not _throw_ the mine?" Tock snaps at him.

"We'll need guards for the night," Nova gets in before Ash can respond. She opens a water bottle, guzzles what must be half its contents, and passes it to me. "The bird doesn't seem interested in us yet, but that could change, and the cat could still be out there."

"What bird?" Tock asks.

"Some kind of massive falcon," I tell him. "Probably not a mutt, since it barely even looked at us when we saw it earlier in the day."

"Or maybe it was just happy with the meal it already had," Nova suggests.

"So a giant raptor that might be a mutt, and a giant cat that's definitely a mutt, both hunting around our camp," Ash complains. "Is there any good news?"

"If the cat's still alive," I offer, "it's probably not in a hunting mood. It sounded like the bird hurt him, and he was probably full anyway after stealing a deer from one of our snares."

"With our luck, the deer would have had poisoned antlers," Ash grouses.

"Don't make me drown you," Nova growls.

Before the argument can escalate, we're interrupted by the blaring of the Capitol anthem.

"A lot earlier than last night," Tock notes.

The girl from Five appears as well as Cropper and Laurel, but the anthem continues to play long after Cropper's face is gone, and as it fades we're greeted by the jovial voice of Hunger Games announcer, Claudius Templesmith. He congratulates those of us remaining on a very exciting Games, and tells us it's about to get even better.

"Are you joining us?" Nova asks sweetly. "That _would_ be fun. Bring your friends."

Apparently Claudius hears her, because he loses his place and has to double back, informing us that the Games are about to get even better because we're having a feast.

"We _could_ be preparing venison right now if not for that mutt you keep sending after me," I point out. Nova laughs.

"Now, I can see some of you already rolling your eyes," Claudius booms cheerfully, "but at dawn at the Cornucopia there will be a plethora of supplies some of you need quite sorely. Maybe you're hungry, maybe you're hurt, or maybe you just need something to give you an edge over your opponents. Rest assured, your needs will be catered for in the morning. Good night, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

"Whoever wins punches him right between his beady little eyes," Nova announces. "Agreed?"

"Um, perhaps more importantly right now," Tock asks, "are we going?"

"Why?" Ash demands. "We're better supplied than anyone else. For all we know whoever shows up at that feast dies for a loaf of bread."

"Or there could be proper medicine. We have aid kits and that glue Haymitch sent us, but Katniss needs anti-infection meds and something that will let her use that arm."

"An anti-inflammatory maybe," Tock suggests. "It would give her some range of motion in the short term. I wouldn't count on anything to really help with the pain, though," he says to me. "They need you able to keep the games going, but I don't see any of them caring if you hurt."

"You were both saying she might be fine in the morning!" Ash explodes.

"Or she could be worse," Tock points out. “If that arm swells up too much, there's no way she's shooting anything. And there aren't many of us left. We don't have time for her to heal up."

"It's too risky," I say before Ash can fit in his next complaint. All heads turn to me.

"A feast is always a fight," I tell them. "I can't fight at all right now. Can any of you?"

"Not really," Tock admits, "but that's the point. You don't have time to heal naturally, and you're the only one who can stand up to the Careers or the freak."

"Exactly," Ash mutters. "This Games isn't going their way. They want to take her out, and all of us at the same time if they can. Then it's down to the _real_ fighters."

"If that means not having to listen to you anymore, we're definitely going," Nova snaps.

"What if we turn this into our trap instead of the Gamemakers?" Tock asks. "Dazzle's hurt; maybe she needs medicine too. The boy from Six didn't have any supplies at all. And we have the mines."

"Explosions and fire have worked for us so far," Nova agrees. "You want to rig the entrance to the Cornucopia?"

"Right. We go now, get there a few hours before dawn. If we set them close enough to each other, one sets off the others. We get at least one Tribute and all the supplies. We wouldn't even need to bury them; a bunch of Tributes running flat out at the Cornucopia aren't going to be watching their step."

"But if we do that we lose the supplies too," Nova points out.

"Not if wait _inside_ the Cornucopia. We set the mines, wait for the feast, grab what we need and get out of there."

"I'm not running through a minefield!" Ash exclaims.

Tock looks at him pityingly. "Four mines isn't a field, and we'll know where they are. We just need to watch our step, and anyone running towards the Cornucopia while we're running away isn't coming after us. They need to gather their own supplies. One false step and they're dead, and we run off with the explosion as cover."

Nova considers for a moment, glancing shiftily at me and Ash. Finally she shakes her head. "No. We're splitting up. You and Ash take all the supplies you can carry. Katniss and I go to the feast; and we'll be travelling light."

It takes a while before both pairs are ready to leave. All Nova and I will take is her sword, my knives, and a single pack containing a little food, water, a first aid kit, and a single mine. Nova and Tock converse for a few minutes, and suddenly Tock is on the ground prying open the casing of said mine.

Nervously, I watch him tinker with it by flashlight, half-expecting him to accidentally blow us all up. But he works quickly and confidently, explaining as he works that the Gamemakers installed multiple triggers, each of which they could activate or deactivate remotely if need be. They can be set to respond immediately to increased or decreased pressure, or set for a delayed detonation. “I saw a clip from an old Games,” he tells me. “Sixtieth, I think. They called the Tributes to a feast, and reactivated the mines, but instead of blowing up as soon as someone stood on where they were planted, they kept going off behind the Tributes, seconds later.”

“What’s to stop the Gamemakers from reactivating them now?” I ask.

“That wouldn’t be very sporting, would it?” Tock says with a smirk. “And the first thing I did was disable remote communication.”

My apprehension must show, because he grins at me as he snaps the casing back in place. “The second thing was to change the settings on the pressure trigger so we don’t set them off accidentally when we’re carrying them around.”

He slips the mine into the pack Nova will carry.

“Just set it on the ground and step on it. You’ll hear a loud click, and then you have ten seconds before it blows. Or you should, at any rate,” he adds darkly. Nova slaps him in the back of the head, and he laughs.

Ash goes along sullenly and not-quite-silently with Nova’s decision. He does manage to contribute something useful to the conversation between grumblings – he comes up with a place for us all to meet up after the feast.

Admittedly, I don’t really contribute anything. I can only watch while Nova lays out the plan. A plan that splits up the pack, endangers her life, and hinges on us surviving a Gamemaker-engineered massacre, then meeting up with the boys later, assuming nothing happens to them in the meantime.

All so I can shoot again.

I don’t point out that my being able to draw a bow makes me as dangerous to them as to everyone else. They already know that, and Ash’s face tells me he isn’t forgetting anytime soon.

A last glance over my shoulder as we part ways sees Ash glaring at me as he stalks away, my bow, remaining arrows and most of my supplies on his back. Tock, with his own heavy pack on his back and a second dangling from his hand, gives us a cheerful wave.

“It isn’t just for you,” Nova says once the boys are out of sight. Her eyes are on me as we walk.

“ _I don’t want to die_ ,” she snarls, and for the first time I see the strain of our situation on her face. “But if you can fight – more importantly, if you can shoot – that makes it more likely that one of _us_ makes it out of here alive.”

“I hope it’s me,” she says firmly. “Tock hopes it’s him, and Ash hopes it’s him. You’re allowed to hope it’s you, too.”

“I _do_ want it to be me,” I insist. “But…” I struggle to find the right words. “I want to _deserve_ to get out of here.”

“You sound like Bannock,” she tells me. “It’s a nice idea, but it won’t help. You or us. I can only think of one person who ever made it out of the Hunger Games without having to do some pretty horrible things.”

That would be last year’s Victor, Annie Cresta. Despite her status as the most recent Victor, she spent almost no time giving interviews in the run-up to these Games, or even during her own Victory Tour. Her speeches in every District and in the Capitol had been brief, delivered in a quavering voice with downcast eyes, and we’d all seen very little of her beyond that. The few times I’d seen her myself in the Capitol she’d been with Finnick Odair, usually clinging to him for dear life. She’d won her Games by being the best swimmer.

I couldn’t think of another Victor who’d won by being anything but the best killer.

“So you’d be okay with me shooting you?” I demand.

“No. But if it comes down to you and me, I’m okay with killing you first if you can’t. And if you can,” she adds, “I’m counting on it being quicker than anything the Careers or that thing from Six would do to me.”

I don’t respond. Her tone suggests she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. Despite her talk of ‘sticking it to the Gamemakers,’ all she really wants is what any of us want. And to get what she wants, she’ll have to do what’s expected of her.

_I will too,_ I tell myself furiously, but I can’t quell the desperate hope that going home doesn’t mean having to go through my allies. I know that if I’m physically capable I can kill the Careers, or the boy from Six with as little hesitation as I did Laurel. I’m pretty sure I can kill the girl from Eight, whose features I can dimly picture. I think if it comes to it, I can kill my allies too.

I just don’t know what will become of me if I do.

Despite the chill of the night, I can feel the constant beading of sweat on my forehead over the next few hours. Despite Tock’s suggestion that we could reach the Cornucopia hours before down to prepare, I realise not long into the trek that we’ll be lucky to get there on time. Nova is carrying the pack, but my jerky movements are still slowing her down. She hasn’t said a word, but her occasional glances at the sky have me forcing myself to move faster, increasing both the pain in my arm and shoulder as well as the exhaustion.

Twice we stop at Nova’s insistence, nervously watching the dark sky – conspicuously absent what should be a bright half-moon – while we quickly eat the first thing we lay our hands on and chug some water.

The second time we’re stopped a finally ask what I’ve wanted to ask since the moment we left the boys.

“How did Bannock die?”

Nova pauses in the act of stuffing closing up the pack.

“When we left the Cornucopia, Bannock insisted we head up the same mountain you’d taken.”

More of a hill than a mountain, I think, but with Bannock’s injured leg and none of them used to the outdoors it wouldn’t have been an easy journey. Then I think how crowded that hillside must have been that first night – myself, all the surviving Careers, and a pack of five.

“Why?” I ask. “This,” I gesture to the much flatter forest around us, “would have made a lot more sense.”

Nova shrugs. “Like I said earlier, he was pretty sure you’d join up with us. He wanted to find you before the Careers did.”

My stomach drops. Bannock was looking for me when he died.

“When it got too dark to keep searching, we settled down for the night. There were too many people on the mountain to risk a fire, so we were just sitting there huddled together in our sleeping bags.”

I remember being perched in my tree that night, waiting for Senan and the others, my fingers so numb with the cold I didn’t know for sure I’d be able to shoot them if they did come along.

“Then right after the anthem, there’s another cannon, then a few minutes later the whole mountaintop is on fire.”

I must make some sort of sound, because Nova’s eyes raise up to meet mine, worried. “What…” she begins, then realisation dawns.

I drop my eyes, trying and failing to catch my breath. “Tell me,” I manage between ragged gasps.

“You don’t need to…”

“Tell me!” I half shriek. She flinches, and I close my eyes, forcing as slow and steady a breath as I can manage through my lungs.

“We grabbed our gear,” she tells me tremulously, “and started heading back down as quickly as we could.” I hear her fumbling at the clasps on her pack. “Tock went missing. The fire was making better time than we were, and when we looked back to see how close it was, there were only four of us.”

I know before she tells me. Bannock, already lamed from an injury my terrible shooting at the Cornucopia helped cause, ran back towards the fire – _my_ fire – to find Tock.

I flinch at the arms moving tentatively around my shoulders. Whether she’s offering me comfort or trying to hide my silent sobs from the cameras, I don’t know.

Distantly, some small part of my mind chides me for my behaviour. I barely knew Bannock Mellark. Before the Games I’d exchanged maybe a handful of words with him in the bakery; usually it was Gale and his father doing the talking when we went there to barter. Bannock barely gave us any more acknowledgement than his youngest brother – the boy who saved my life with a loaf of bread and who never said a single word to me all the times I was in the bakery after that day.

In the lead-up to the Games I hadn’t known quite what to make of Bannock. In public he’d mostly played the fool, while privately he’d been much more serious. More than once he’d absolutely terrified me, before retreating into himself as suddenly as his ferocious temper had exploded.

He’d also gone out of his way to give me the best chance he could in the Hunger Games. He’d forced Haymitch to accept our alliance, made sure the instructors in the Training Centre took note of me. Then, after I nearly got him killed in the first minute of the Games, he gathered a pack and set out to find his first ally.

And I killed him.


End file.
